Mysteries of Ward 40
by Haleine Delail
Summary: Dr. Martha Jones takes a job in a mental hospital, in a special ward, notorious for difficult patients and strange occurrences.  As she digs into its history and mystery, she learns what makes it special, and why no patient nor doctor lasts long there.
1. Chapter 1

**New offering! I think this one will be quite difficult, and I'm nervous about it... much like my principal character! I hope you'll be intrigued by it, and be patient with me!**

**Also, be aware that I think this story might contain long-ish entries from journals or case files, and the story will fall into place (I'm hoping) slowly, largely as a result of these writings. I hope you won't find this "device" overly tedious in light of _Things We Weren't Meant To Know, _which had similar storytelling_. _**Rest assured that this story is totally different conceptually!****

****As always, enjoy and review!****

* * *

><p><span>ONE<span>

Dr. Martha Jones was impressed – the place looked a lot less institutional than she was expecting. In her experience, facilities like this were covered from floor to ceiling in tones of blue. It seemed to give the patients the impression that they were looking at the ocean, or the sky or what-have-you. It seemed to be colour that most people perceived as calming.

But Martha had always felt that there was a good reason why when one is depressed, it is said that one is _blue_. Sky, ocean… blue is a colour rooted in the unattainable, things you can't have or reach or get rid of, or see the end of. She had never liked blue, and she appreciated the uniqueness of the Bernard Briscoe Clinic, with its Earthen greens, browns and burnt oranges. It felt like someone had actually thought about what the patients might like, rather than just slapping a bunch of sterile-looking paint on the walls, and ordering grey carpet from a hospital catalogue.

Still, she was apprehensive. As a psychiatrist, she posited that she was probably tuning into the colours because she herself was focusing on her own feelings of anxiety, and as usual, analysing her surroundings in a way that a layman wouldn't. She had heard _such _stories about this clinic, especially about Ward 40. It was for "hard" cases, and had had series of exceedingly difficult patients, delusional and bizarre, undiagnosable, and irrisistably fascinating. Many a doctor had come and gone from Ward 40, though very few had ever been able to explain what went on inside, and/or why they had left. Dr. Jones was coming into Ward 40 on a trial basis as a favour to a friend; she had absolutely no idea if she would want or be able to stay. She hoped, at least, that she could do some good here.

Currently, she sat in a smallish room, with a tan and brown tiled floor, in an oak chair with orange leather upholstery. She was wearing what she always wore on her first day at a new facility: a black business suit, a red blouse and pumps on her feet that made her feel taller and more powerful. The door to her right was shut, and she was waiting to be let in. Her legs were crossed at the knees, and one of her feet bounced up and down at the end of her leg like a windsock.

"Dr. Jones, come on in," a voice said through a speaker.

Martha stood up. The armoured door buzzed loudly, and she reached out and took the handle. Dr. Smith was expecting her, and should be standing right inside. She took a deep breath and opened the door nervously, and there on the other side of the double-enforced armoured door stood her host. Attractive, with dark hair, bright eyes, a lovely, likeable smile that immediately commanded trust.

"Hello, Dr. Jones," Dr. Smith said, taking Martha's hand for a hearty shake. "I'm Dr. Smith – I've really been looking forward to meeting you."

"Likewise, I'm sure."

"So glad you're here. I'll tell you, life isn't easy around these parts. There's a reason I'm an interim doctor – I can't handle the pace anymore!"

"Well, I'm really anxious to get stuck right into the work," Martha said. "So I really hope you'll be able to relax in a few days."

"Oh, I'll be leaving in a few days. Like I said – I'm interim!"

"Ah."

"So I'll show you the ropes, Dr. Jones, but first things first – let's get you an ID card."

Martha followed her host through a glass door, where a thin man with glasses sat behind a desk.

"Hi Gil," Dr. Smith said to the man. "This is Dr. Martha Jones, she's going to be the new Chief Psychiatrist in Ward 40."

"Another brave, brave lady," said Gil with a smile. He reached out and shook Martha's hand, asked her to stand against the wall while he took her photo. She waited a minute or two, and before she left the room, she had an ID card hanging from her lapel, indicating that she had full clearance and access to the entire facility.

"We'll get you a username and password for the in-house network a bit later," Dr. Smith told her. "But first, let me show you round."

They went through a secure door, and began walking down a hallway, brown and tan tile like in the lobby, with patients lining the corridors in various states of awareness.

"I suppose I should explain," Dr. Smith said. "I started at the Bernard Briscoe Clinic a long time ago, in the seventies, right in Ward 40 where you're going to be. I was Chief Psychiatrist for a time… put in a few years then… had to leave. Went about my life after that, and then, about a year ago, I was called in… let's say, in an advisory capacity, alongside the psychiatrist that you're replacing. After she left, I came in as an interim doctor until you could get here."

"Gotcha."

"I haven't had much contact with the patient – I'm not keen on him seeing me. It would cause… well, it's a long story. Anyway, I've been overseeing the orderlies and nurses, but I've really tried to keep away from the patient himself. I thought it would make the transition easier for you, and for him."

"Patient? There's only one?"

"There's always only one, in Ward 40," Dr. Smith answered. "I'm sure you know, it's for hard cases."

"Yes, but… I had never heard that there was only one."

"One at a time," the interim doctor said, nodding. "They are usually seriously entrenched in their delusion, and need to be isolated."

"Speaking of that," Martha chimed in. "Tell me about that – the delusions."

Dr. Smith stopped walking, eyes to the ceiling. "I suppose you've heard that the Ward 40 patients are difficult."

"Of course."

"Well, it's not just the patients, it's the Ward itself."

"How do you mean?" Martha asked, crossing her arms inquisitively, putting her weight on one hip.

"It's strange. You're going to think this is completely mad – well, we all think it's completely mad. But all of the patients who have inhabited Ward 40 have had the exact same delusion."

Martha's eyebrows went up. "Interesting!"

"Different men of different ages, from different parts of the country at different times in history. Whatever their delusion was when they arrive, it conforms to the pattern of all of the past patients once they settle in. They pick up the historical Ward 40 delusion."

"What's the delusion?"

"Well, I'll let you read the case files," Dr. Smith said evasively.

"Okay," Martha said, looking at her host sideways, sensing the hesitation.

"And that's not the strangest part."

"What's the strangest part?"

"The strangest part is that, as time goes on, each subsequent patient tends to remember all of the past patients and their experiences."

"What?"

"I know, it's weird," said Dr. Smith. "No-one has been able to work out why. It's like… well, a kind of telepathy. We've done test after test after test, and there is nothing quantifiable to suggest _why _this is happening."

"Wow! So, you said that the Ward itself is part of the problem. What's that about?"

Dr. Smith chuckled, and started walking again. "Some people say it's the Ward that causes it. Like it's cursed or something."

"Cursed? You're joking."

"I wish I were. In fact, this sort of superstitious panic led to the whole Ward being closed for a long time. Some said it was cursed, some said it was because of asbestos or drugs or something in the air… I say it was a bloody farce. Anyway, they closed it in 1989, and started investigating it."

"And you said there was nothing quantifiable?"

"Absolutely nothing. So they tried re-opening the Ward in 1996, but the patient, bless him, he died straight away. No-one knows _how _he died exactly… autopsy was inconclusive. So, people got skittish and the council shut it down again."

"Blimey!"

"In 2005… well, you know the rest. You've read about it."

"Sort of," Martha said, shrugging. "I guess I don't know as much as I should. All of this closing and re-opening is news to me! But, Dr. Smith, there's something about the psychiatrist I'm replacing…"

"Oh, she was lovely."

"But she's gone. What happened?"

The host doctor became very uncomfortable, staring at the floor, the walls, the patients, doing everything to avoid Martha's eye. "I'm, er, not entirely clear on the details of her departure. She was a very good psychiatrist, just what this Ward needed upon re-opening, in fact. She was excellent with the patients."

"Patients, plural?"

"Mm-hm. She worked with two of them."

"How's that?"

"The patients who stay in Ward 40 usually have a relatively short life-span," Dr. Smith said sadly. "They come here because their families can't handle them anymore, and we take them on. But the delusion has a corrosive effect on their brain chemistry and the drugs, while they modify the behaviour, don't help much in that regard. I'm afraid brain-damaged and mental health patients do not live very long this way. Usually just three to five years, and we lose them. Anyway, the previous doctor worked with one, and then when he died, she took on the next one – the current one."

"I see." Martha knew she'd be granted access to the full case files, and she reckoned she'd find out sooner or later why the previous psychiatrist had had to leave Ward 40.

"Here we are, Dr. Jones," the host said, indicating a dark blue door at the end of the hall. "Ward 40. Your patient is inside."

"Ah. A blue door," Martha said, noticing the colour straight away. She squinted. "Why does it say _Police Public Call Box_?"

"Oh, that's another thing you should know," Dr. Smith warned. "Officially, this is Ward 40. Although here inside, we call it the Tardis."

"Tardis? Why?"

"Again, I'll let you read the case files."

"But police box?"

"It's all in the files, Dr. Jones. I promise."

"All right, then. This is all very odd."

"I know, it's just a bit convoluted and I'm frankly rather weary of the whole thing. Sorry."

"Quite all right. Thank you," Martha said, beginning to make her way down the corridor.

"One more thing, Dr. Jones," the older, experienced doctor said. "Watch out for this patient. He's… different from the others."

"Different how?"

"He's got a quality. I can't explain it. Just be aware of yourself when you're around him, okay?"

"Okay," Martha said, frowning. She was getting nervous about the cryptic non-answers and all the mystery. "I'll just go in and introduce myself, and then I'll get to the files. What's his name?"

"Since the Tardis is experimental, we don't know their names. They are available upon request, but we feel it's better not to know, for research and treatment purposes. It's part of the Clinic's protocol. We only know the patients by number. This is the Tenth."

"So, what do I call him?"

"He'll tell you."

"Okay. Thank you, Dr. Smith."

"Oh, Martha," said the older woman. "Call me Sarah Jane, please."


	2. Chapter 2

TWO

Martha peeked in through the mirrored windows that adorned the upper half of the Tardis door. Inside, she saw the patient. He was not behaving as she had expected. At first glance, he seemed absolutely lucid and totally calm. Martha, of course, knew that his appearance could not be trusted. As with all severely affected mental patients, she resolved to approach with caution.

She opened the door using her ID card, which doubled as a cardkey, and shut it behind her. The patient looked her over, smiling slightly as he did so.

"Good morning," she said to him as she entered. "How are you feeling today?"

"Aw, not so bad," he answered whimiscally. "Just a little bit _bleah_."

"All right. Stomach cramps?"

He didn't answer.

The patient was, Martha guessed, around thirty-five years old. He wasn't standing up, but she could see that he was pretty tall; over six feet, she'd have guessed. He was thin, with brown hair that didn't seem to want to lie down, and very sharp features. He was good-looking, which gave Martha a little bit of a shock, but she hid it well. At the back of her mind, she was wondering if this was what Dr. Smith meant when she'd told Martha to watch herself with this one. Indeed, Martha had never had an "attractive" patient before. Not a man, anyway.

He was sitting in bed with his back against the headboard, and the covers pulled up to his waist. He was wearing striped white and pink and blue pyjamas. He was watching her with a bright, expectant expression.

"I'm Dr. Jones. You can call me Martha, if you like," she told him. "I'm your new psychiatrist."

He continued to look at her with lit-up and inquisitive eyes, but he made absolutely no indication that he understood what she had said, or had even heard her.

"Well," she continued. "Let's just take your vitals, shall we?"

She took his chart from where it hung on the end of the bed and looked it over. The hourly inspections had reported him sitting there in bed, in basically the same position, for the past twelve hours. Sometimes he watched television, sometimes, he seemed to talk to other people who were, of course, not there. One inspection, and one only, had reported him asleep. One of the orderlies had noted that he hadn't worn his normal clothes in a couple of days, choosing instead to wear pyjamas.

Heart rate and blood pressure were normal as of last night, blood sugar was normal as of this morning, and he'd had his morning medication, and wasn't due for another dose for two hours. She noted that the drugs often had to be administered intravenously, if the patient could not be convinced to stand still, or drink something to wash down the pills.

Martha thought it wouldn't hurt to take the heart rate and blood pressure again, just in case. If his level of activity had changed in the past twelve hours, perhaps there was a problem with his heart-rate, either as a cause, or an effect.

Martha dug into a drawer on the side of the room, which slid under a white formica countertop. Upon the counter, there was a red necktie folded neatly, and a pair of bright red Converse trainers. To the left of that, there was a clothes rack of sorts, and she saw a blue pin-striped suit, and a light blue dress shirt, hung neatly on the hooks. Beside that, there was a brown suit, a darker blue dress shirt, and five or six brown and blue ties. On the floor, a worn pair of white Converse lay on their sides.

_Okay, so the patient wears a suit every day, except when he's in pyjamas? All right._

"How come you aren't dressed yet?" she asked, indicating the clothes as she pulled a stethoscope from the drawer and turned back.

"Sorry?"

"Your chart, it says you haven't got dressed for a few days."

"Why does it say that?" he asked, his eyes wide like a child's. This expression delighted her.

She smiled. "I don't know, it just does."

She approached him, and pressed the stethoscope to his chest. His heart was racing. She looked at her watch and began timing thirty seconds so that she could get beats per minute. It was at 130. Any faster and she'd have been very, very, worried for a person in seemingly good physical health, sitting still in bed for a whole day. Any faster and he'd be in stroke territory. As it was, it was concerning – something was causing agitation, most likely something internal, something going on inside his mind. She looked up at the patient and he winked at her, as if he knew, and was amused that she was so nonplussed by it.

_The wink was cute_, she found herself thinking. But she quickly shook it off, and turned to record her findings. She examined his retinas, as well, then recorded these findings. She leaned on the counter and looked through his most recent MRI scans. The pink area in the middle, the hourglass-shaped bit, had fluctuated some over the past year, and certainly there was ample evidence of neuron blocks, but there was nothing to suggest that he was dangerous. Besides, she was sure that Dr. Smith would have said something about it, if he were. She wouldn't have been so cryptic as to say, "this one is different," without saying that he was homicidal.

She hung his chart on the end of his bed once more.

So, the patient was docile, though not lucid. Perhaps he was delusional, but not violent nor volatile. She felt she could turn her back on him for a few minutes, though she didn't want to leave him yet. She wanted to learn what it was, causing his heart to speed. She also wanted to see what she could learn about what Dr. Smith had called the "historical" Ward 40 delusion, before reading about it. She wanted to form her own opinions before seeing what other doctors had to say about it.

For the first time, Martha began to look around the room. The patient un-muted the television and began watching a nature show about the mighty rhinoceros.

It was decorated quite strangely, and she could see that it had been remodeled a few times. There was definite evidence of 1963, which was the year the Ward had originally opened.

The room was circular (which she had seen in a few mental hospitals) with a domed ceiling. Most of the lighting in the room was provided by round fixtures along the walls, as well as some natural light that came through opaque sky lights in the ceiling. Like the rest of the Earth-tones in the clinic, the walls and fixtures were beige. There were load-bearing supports in the room, curvy, art-deco ones that sort of looked like cartoon tree trunks.

In the middle of the room, there was a large round table, about chest-high to her, like a bar table. There was a single tattered black leather stool pulled up to the table – it was the only place to sit in the room, other than the bed. Strewn across the table, among other things, there were drawings, Martha assumed, done by the patient. Gears and cogs, clocks, gadgets, mechanical things that looked totally alien to Martha, were drawn in great detail, and taped to the table. There was also a computer with a flat-screen monitor. In the centre of the table, the patient kept things like a radio, a telephone, some tools, his art supplies, videos and DVDs, a stereo and iPod dock, several clocks, a mini-fridge, microwave, etc. Clearly, that table was the focal point of the room, as there was hardly anything else to focus on.

Some movement caught her eye, and she turned. The patient was out of bed. He pulled on a navy blue bathrobe, then began to walk round, inspecting the room, though he didn't seem to see her. She pulled his chart from the end of the bed and watched him, taking notes.

She noticed the tip of a Philips head screwdriver sticking out of the pocket of the robe, and she made a note of it, as well – both a written note, and a careful mental note. The patient was just barely aware of her at the moment, but he did have a potential weapon on his person. Though, he wasn't making any particular effort to keep it concealed, so Martha reasoned that the clinic's staff must have known he had it, and allowed it. And gain, she reminded herself that there were no indicators in his chart of any unduly volatile behaviour or violent tendencies.

Suddenly, he shouted, "Whoa!" and began stumbling sideways, as though there were an earthquake. He held onto the counter for a moment, then seemed to stumble the other way, and flopped down on the bed. "The hospital is being transported to the moon!" he shouted.

_He's giving me a cue. All right - here we go._

She followed suit, mimicked his movements for the next few moments, until he stopped. She wanted to learn about the delusion, so she decided to play a role, let him guide her through whatever was happening in his mind.

He looked at her meaningfully when the "transport" ceased. Then, he suddenly pulled the curtain that separated the part of his room that had the bed, from the rest of the room.

It was a fantastical situation, a hospital being transported to the moon. She wasn't sure whether he'd want her in the role of someone in-the-know in his delusion, or of an ordinary person who had no idea what to make of the situation. She reckoned she could get more information if she played ignorant. So, Martha said, "We're on the moon," using her best incredulous voice. "We're on the bloody moon!"

The patient had said _the hospital_ was being transported to the moon. Did that mean he was aware that he was a patient? Martha made a note on his chart. She tried to put herself in the right frame of mind. _The hospital has been mysteriously transported to the moon, I have no idea what's happening, I'm probably frightened but I want to learn more… what do I do? How do I react?_

She began moving about the room, assuring invisible patients that everything would be okay, that the situation would be sorted out. She reassured someone that the oxygen had not been sucked out through the windows, so they were fine to breathe for a while.

"Very good point," the patient said, pulling back the curtain suddenly. She turned and looked at him. He was dressed in his blue suit and red trainers. "Brilliant, in fact, what was your name?"

"Martha."

"And it was Jones, wasn't it?"

She nodded.

She looked at the clothes rack, where the navy blue bathrobe now hung. She noted that the screwdriver was no longer in the pocket, nor was it anywhere she could see it. She assumed he must still have it, probably in his breast pocket.

He asked her if she felt like going out on the veranda, so she played along. He took her toward the bed so they could see the television.

"You okay?" he asked her, she assumed, because the hospital-on-the-moon scenario was traumatic.

"Yeah."

"Sure?"

"Yeah. I promise you, sir, we will find a way out of this."

"Don't call me sir. I'm the Doctor."

She was taken aback by this development. "_You're_ the Doctor?"

_Does he want to switch roles?_

He didn't answer her.

_Oh, I get it. _"People call you _the Doctor_?"

"Yeah."

"Far as I'm concerned, you've got to earn that title," she told him, smiling a bit.

"Well, then, I'd better make a start."

He pointed at the rhinos, frolicking on the nature show.

"That's aliens," Martha improvised. It was the moon… why not aliens?

"Judoon," the patient said. Martha made a note of it.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her down to crouch on one side of the bed, as though hiding. He peered over, and seemed to be watching something.

"They're making a catalogue."

"Who, the rhinos?"

"They're scanning for non-humans, which is very bad news for me," he said.

"Why?" she asked.

He looked at her gravely.

"Oh, you are joking."

He cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Don't be ridiculous!" she protested.

He said nothing, but continued to stare.

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Come on," he whispered, taking her by the hand.

* * *

><p>"This is Dr. Martha Jones, new Chief Psychiatrist to Ward 40, known as the Tardis. The time is twenty-two forty-five, on 31st March, 2007.<p>

"As names are not known in this Ward, I'll say that I met the Tenth Patient this morning. As an initial assessment, I'll say that I'm rather fond of him, though slightly wary. In the spirit of full disclosure, I'd like to report that the patient kissed me today, rather in earnest, as a part of this _episode_ fueled by his delusion. However, other than being overtly flirtatious and aware of his own charisma, the patient exhibited no sexually inappropriate or threatening behaviours. I did not protest, nor try and explain the impropriety of his actions, as it was part of the delusion, and I wish to see where else it goes.

"Also, I'd like to mention that throughout the day, he carried a Philips screwdriver in his pocket and used it on various occasions. He believes that it emits a sonic pulse that allows him to manipulate technology and open locks. I do not believe that this screwdriver poses a threat, as the patient's delusional identity seems to be that of a benevolent being, but again, in the spirit of full disclosure, the screwdriver makes me a little nervous.

"Now, then, the delusion. He demands to be called _Doctor_, and he believes he is a non-human traveller called a _Time Lord_, a kind of… what? Outer-space hero, who also possesses a time machine. In his mind, this room, this Tardis, is his spaceship-slash-time machine. The drawings and gadgets on the table in the centre of the room, he seems to believe, make the ship go. In the delusion, he seems to enjoy travelling with a companion, as he invited me, at the end of the day, to join him in his space travels. I agreed to do so, as I feel that it will yield much useful information.

"As a disturbing coda to this interaction, the name _Rose_ came up in the context of our spending time in the Tardis together. The patient is _exceedingly_ attached to someone named Rose, and though he seems fond enough of me, he made it clear that he does not want me replacing her. I haven't looked at the official Ward 40 files yet, but I seem to recall that the doctor who worked her as Chief Psychiatrist in Ward 40 before me was… oh, let me think… Rose Trevor? Rose Tyler? Something like that. Anyway, the patient seems inordinately hung up on her departure, though I can't prove at the moment that this is the Rose to whom he refers.

"So… the Tenth Patient's delusion is one of the most detailed I have ever seen. I'm not sure how much of this is consistent with the _historic_ Ward 40 delusion, or the delusion shared by all the patients who have occupied the Tardis. This patient, though, is capable of creating great, almost mythic, fantasy elements, and as has been demonstrated through my presence in the room and participation in his little adventure, he pulls from what is around him, in order to create certain scenarios. In today's episode, the villains were an army of talking rhinos, and a vampire-like creature. He had been watching a nature programme about rhinos, which then switched its focus to vampire bats. But the fantasy elements seem to be all his own. The vampiric creature could assimilate human biology by drinking blood, and the rhinos were a police-squad-for-hire. Like intergalactic mercenaries, maybe.

"These fantasy elements are the most fascinating piece of the puzzle to me. These are the things that make this patient unique to any other that I have worked with. He raises concepts that are complex and unreal, rather than using elements of our world and fitting them together absurdly. I'm not sure I'm making any sense here. But somehow, this makes the delusion more real to him, and to me. The pure fantastical quality of it makes it somehow believable – though not in a literal sense. Perhaps… perhaps this is something that, as an ongoing supervisor of the Tenth Patient, I shall try and suss out further for my own benefit, and for the benefit of those who shall act as Chief in the Tardis in the future. What do I mean, _more real_ and how can fantasy make something _more believable?_

"To sum up… well, I've said it before, and I'll say it again. In his mind, he is clearly a hero. He saves the day. He rescues people. He is a tragic figure, and seems to behave in an intentionally romantic and enigmatic way. I... You know what? That's it for today."

And that's where Dr. Jones' narrative of her first day with the Tenth Patient stopped. She had said a couple of things _in the spirit of full disclosure_, but had stopped short commenting on the patient's romantic, enigmatic quality. There were just a few thoughts she was having that she was not quite ready to fully disclose. She needed to sort through them, and work out whether they were going to be a problem for her, or for her patient.

More than anything, she needed to get into that file room and read more about the Tardis, and begin to work out why in God's name all of the patients share the same delusion and share each other's memories. In the morning, she would gather any staff who worked in the Tardis, and learn about and/or modify their checking-in schedule, and adjust the patient's meds if necessary. She didn't plan on seeing him in-person again until she'd done her homework.

She hit Ctrl-S on her keyboard, and saved the digital file as _Jones310307,_ and put it in the file labelled "Patient Narratives-10," and it became part of the network, and part of the history of this strange, strange place. She unplugged the microphone from her BBC-issued laptop, shut it down, and went home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Holy cow, I say! What a response! I feel even more pressure now to deliver something awesome... thank you thank you for the wonderful feedback and interest!**

* * *

><p><span>THREE<span>

She had put on jeans and a tank top, and tied her hair back today, knowing she'd be up to her eyebrows in dusty patient files. She had looked in on her patient when she arrived. Still asleep. He looked like a normal guy when asleep – she was almost reluctant to believe he was truly crazy. She was going to send in an orderly today to give him his medication. She'd see him tomorrow, or the next day.

Sarah Jane Smith went into the file room with her, and guided her through the system.

"The Tardis has its own wall," Dr. Smith explained. "That big blue book shelf over there – that's all from Ward 40, from 1963 to the present. The computer there is reserved only for Ward 40. The rest of the clinic is filed over here on the grey shelves, and if you want to see any digital files from there, you'll have to use a separate terminal."

"Wow. Okay," Martha commented, running her eyes over the wall of files concerning the delusions of the Tardis patients.

"And, since you're the Chief Psych now…"

"Possibly temporarily," Martha corrected.

"Yes, well. Anyway, the Tardis is your domain now. You can re-file however you like, come up with your own system. You can recruit one of the secretaries or orderlies to help, if you need to. I did that back when I first came on full-time."

"Which was when?"

"Oh, goodness, let me think. 1973, I believe."

Martha smiled. She didn't tell the older doctor that she hadn't even been born yet, at that time.

"Do each of the Chief Psychs re-arrange things in here?" she asked instead.

"Not all, but several of them have over the years. Frankly, re-filing is a good way to familiarise oneself with the patient history."

"I suppose that's true."

"Anyway, as it is now, anything before 1996 is kept as hard copy or analog. There are no digital copies of narratives or patient charts from before the Ward was re-opened the first time. I suppose someday soon they'll have to remedy that, but we just don't have the man-power at the moment. Nowadays, patient charts are kept as hard copy for one year," said Dr. Smith. "Then they are scanned and they become digital, and you have to dig into the server to find them. The verbal narratives are digital now as well. You did one of those last night, didn't you?"

Martha nodded, then sighed, rather daunted. Right now, she had no intention of changing the system, but she had come in today hoping to begin familiarising herself with Ward 40's history, so…

"Well, I'm just going to dive in, if that's all right," said Martha.

"Anything you want," said Dr. Smith. "I'll tell the orderlies where you are, have them check on you periodically, see if you need tea or what-have-you."

"Thanks."

Sarah Jane shut the door behind her. Martha dragged a three-step ladder over to the blue book shelf, all the way to the far left. She took the very first file from the very top shelf. She knew she wasn't going to read every single narrative from every single day for the last forty-four years, but she had to start somewhere. Why not the beginning?

She opened to the first narrative, dated 20 November, 1963. It was hand-written. She flipped through it quickly and noticed two separate sets of handwriting. On the cover, two doctors were identified as Chief Psychiatrists to Ward 40, Dr. Ian Chesterton and Dr. Barbara Wright.

"Wright – 20/11/63. The new patient is projected to arrive tomorrow. In conference with his family and facility leadership, we shall not use his name in these documents. Neither Dr. Chesterton nor I have met the patient yet. Here is what we know: the patient is 60 years old, male. He has a wife (clearly), two children and three grandchildren. His delusion is complete – he no longer has any moments of lucidity, and no longer recognises any family member other than one granddaughter. He has been going out 'into the world,' as it were, in order to bring strangers into his fantasy, which has resulted in his arrest on more than one occasion. He has never been charged, because of his connections to the police and because his wife has been able to argue for his insanity. The family feel he will be better served under constant care, and that the delusion can be contained within our specialised walls."

And then the handwriting changed.

"Chesterton – 21/11/63. The opening of the new Ward has hit a snag. The clinic lost electricity today, but these things are to be expected in a brand-new facility like ours. There are only 15 current patients in the whole of the clinic, and most of them did not notice. Power has since been restored, so tomorrow, we shall open our doors to our special patient.

"Wright – 22/11/63. Tragedy on the world's stage has delayed our progress yet again. We shall not flag nor fail, however…"

"Chesterton – 23/11/63. It's been slow going, but the patient has been installed. We have yet to examine or interview him properly because he is agitated and is granddaughter will not leave his side. Facility leadership demands that we not ask her to leave. Though, we ascertain that having her here may help ease some of the transition, though the patient seems to be coping reasonably well. Perhaps the delusion is allowing him to adapt?"

"Wright – 25/11/63. The patient rose early today. He dressed himself in a late Victorian-style suit, for some reason, though he had been brought in wearing casual modern attire. He re-arranged the room, of his own volition. He has placed his bed off to the right in the alcove, and moved the large round table to the middle of the room. He circles round it, and stares as though there is something missing from it. When I asked him about it, he said, 'The Tardis does not go without it,' and gestured at the table, looking at me as though I oughtn't be so daft. The patient's chart contains other rather cryptic statements made thoughout the day. Please refer."

Martha rooted around in a pile of drawers nearby and found a pad of paper and a pen. She decided to make a note of the fact that the First Patient arranged the room exactly as it is now, including with the big round table in the middle.

"Chesterton – 28/11/63. The patient's granddaughter, Susan, asked if she might be permitted to paint the outside of the door of Ward 40. She claims it is at the patient's behest. We thought it an exceedingly strange request, but facility leadership asked us to permit it. Dr. Wright and I will not interfere with this process. We are curious to see the effects of this request being carried out."

_What's all this about 'facility leadership'?_ Martha wondered. _It seems like they're calling a lot of the shots, and I get the sense that the psychs are none too pleased about some of the decisions being made at the administrative level. But they're not coming out and saying so. I know there's a British reserve, but treatment of a patient of this sort requires the attending doctors to be very frank…_

Then she remembered the details she had left out, thoughts that she thought might have a negative bearing on the case, and on her.

_Okay, a bit of collegial sympathy,_ she told herself.

"Wright – 30/11/63. It has been two full days since we recorded. In that time, the patient has made some bizarre drawings that look a bit like gears, controls, buttons. He has affixed them to the table in the centre of the room. Meanwhile, Susan painted the outside of the Ward's door a dark blue, and painted the words 'Police Public Call Box' in white. The mirrored, paned viewing windows have been left alone. Dr. Chesterton, Susan and I escorted the patient out into the hall to see it, and he seemed exceedingly enthusiastic about it. Again, please refer to the patient's chart for cryptic statements made during this time, including, 'The chameleon circuit is stuck.' Dr. Chesterton is currently researching literary and scientific references to this phrase, as we agree that it is the strangest thing he has said since arriving."

She made note of the drawings on the table, and the painting of the door.

"Chesterton – 01/12/63. Susan has agreed to stay away for a few days, and my first official interview with the patient was today. I had a transcript made, but it is confusing and non-linear. The patient refused to answer many of my questions, and those he did answer, he did so smugly, or grumpily or reluctantly. His answers were bizarre in the extreme. From what I could tell, he believes himself to be a doctor, and he sets himself apart from the rest of the human race. The rest of his ramblings are so random… please refer to the transcript. Dr. Wright will talk with him tomorrow. Perhaps she'll be able to make some sense."

"Wright – 02/12/63. I was able to physically examine the patient today. There seems to be nothing physiologically wrong with him. He moves well for his age, his blood pressure is slightly accelerated, but he sees and hears with no difficulty. His speech is slightly impeded by an occasional stutter or delayed vocabulary retrieval. Is this a product of the delusion, or a by-product of a greater illness? With respect to Dr. Chesterton's narrative of yesterday, here is what I have to add: The patient does not believe he is a doctor. He believes that he is _The_ Doctor, that this is is name. He insists on being called as such. He does not simply set himself apart from the rest of the human race, he actually believes he is non-human, or an alien. He seems to believe that the Ward is a spaceship console room of some kind, and also possibly a time machine…"

Martha made notes of all of this. The delusion was consistent in some very key ways! The patient is 'the Doctor,' he travels through time and space in a vehicle marked as a police public call box, and he is not human. She was tempted to dive forward into the Second, Third and Fourth Patients' files as well, to see exactly how well the delusion held steady throughout all of it, and what other things got added to it.

But, she had still gained no insight into why _this_ delusion, and why the patients shared one anothers' memories. Perhaps that was simply part of the superstition that seemed to surround Ward 40? Or perhaps it was a misconception on the part of one of the Chief Psychs, and had persisted because no-one had bothered to be thorough?

She went to the shelf and grabbed a handful of other files on this same patient. She flipped through another group of narratives, and skimmed some stories describing scenarios very much like the one she had experienced with the Tenth Patient yesterday. Usually, it was some kind of alien attack, the imagery therein influenced by something on the radio or in a book he'd been reading. The psychiatrists and the granddaughter were pulled along in the fantasy, and played their roles well, in order to study the patient and gain insight into his thought processes.

Martha also saw the occasional trip back in time, again, usually influenced by some external stimulus to which the patient had been exposed. Sometimes, the psychiatrists would expose him on purpose, to see if and how the stimulus would manifest as a delusional scenario for the patient. Martha resolved to try this with the Tenth Patient as soon as she got the chance.

Repeatedly, the psychiatrists described the patient as being grumpy, grandfatherly, with a tendency to lecture them, whereas _her_ patient was energetic, sprightly and flirty.

So, after encoutering only two patients from Ward 40, Martha posited that each "Doctor" had the same basic story, but each one had a different personality and style. She knew she had to investigate why the Doctor's framework remained the same, but she assumed that the personality types were holdovers from the actual patient's core personality. The First Patient, when younger and lucid, had probably been of a more serious, cynical disposition. The Tenth had probably been very funny in his lucid days, and probably something of a ladies' man. She made notes of this in her pad, and resolved to turn this research record into a digital narrative later on.

She also wrote, "How does 'The Doctor' within his delusional framework account for these differences in personality, which he _must_ recognise within this inherited memory that he possesses?"

She was absolutely fascinated now, and even more so than before, her fingers itched to delve into the in-between stories, other patient-Doctors with their psychiatrist-companions, different aliens, different solutions, different stories each time. If nothing else, Martha was looking forward to asking the Tenth Patient about some of those past adventures from forty-odd years before, just to see if he would remember them.

But for now, she wanted more history!


	4. Chapter 4

**Hmm. This took me longer than it should have, and to tell you the truth, I'm not too happy with this chapter. But I hope you like it!**

* * *

><p><span>FOUR<span>

Over the next two days, Martha found herself in meeting after meeting… mental health professionals _love_ meetings, she knew. Plans for the patients, charts, avoiding lawsuits, experimentation, confidentiality, and just plain left-hand-knowing-what-the-right-hand-is-doing type stuff. And on and on and on…

She met the rest of the hospital staff. She had a private, official meeting with those who would be working under her, though that group had a high turnover rate, since the delusional patients in the Tardis usually creeped out the nurses and orderlies. She and Dr. Smith met to arrange the details of Dr. Smith's departure. Martha consulted with a couple of other psychiatrists about what little they knew of the Tenth Patient. She got a tour of the inner workings of the clinic.

And in so doing, she learned that there was a media control room. She could Shanghai the patient's television, as it were, and put on it whatever she wanted him to see. She could do the same with his radio, stereo systems and computer access. If she wished, she could shut off his satellite and radio signals, and the patients were not allowed to use the internet anyway.

She remembered making a mental note of Drs. Chesterton and Wright experimenting with input devices, and decided to use the media Shanghai to carry through with her experiment, though she wasn't sure what she would input. She went into the patients' video library to see what she might find, and came back with two DVDs of the RSC's filmed versions of _Love's Labours Lost_ and _MacBeth._ She also grabbed a documentary on the life of Shakespeare. She put the DVD on in the patient's room, then checked on him to make sure he was watching it. He was. Later, she'd have an orderly switch to the documentary, and then play them all again. Eventually, she would go into the room, and see what they would conjure up.

* * *

><p>She spent one more afternoon in the file room, and skipped all the way to the end of the First Patient's stay. At some point in the rotation, Drs. Chesterton and Wright had been replaced by Dr. Benjamin Jackson. It was on his watch that the First Patient died, in October, 1966.<p>

"Jackson – 28/10/66. The patient has been deteriorating quickly, and I fear the end is nigh. He did suffer so when Susan stopped coming round each day. She has since got married, and he was not allowed to attend the ceremony (though, it is still in dispute whether he even _knew_ there was a ceremony), and since then, there has been a marked decline in his physical health. I cannot yet ascertain whether the mental condition and the physical are related. If the mental condition is contributing to the physical decline, then my job just became ever so much more difficult. Forgive me for saying so, but I suppose we'll have to wait for the autopsy results, in order to find out.

"Jackson – 29/10/66. Today, the patient fought with orderlies – this was his chief endeavour of the day. They tried to give him his medication, and he refused it. They tried to help him change his clothes, and he insisted that they unhand him. They tried to clean his quarters, and he threw them out. Whatever they wanted to do, he wanted them doing the opposite, and his words, as usual, sounded like complete gibberish. He would not even listen to me, warning him that he might exert himself. I fear for what is to come since he has not taken his stabilising medications, and has refused therapy and all other treatments. Facility leadership dictates that I leave for the night; but I walk away from the hospital tonight under extreme protest. I do not believe my patient is long for this world, and tonight's care might be crucial."

_Blimey, again with Facility Leadership. What is going on with that?_ Martha asked herself, not for the first time.

"Jackson – 30/10/66. I came in this morning to find my patient had passed in his sleep. The medical examiner put time of death at approximately 11:15 last night. Tomorrow, I will begin casting about for my replacement, and facility leadership shall regroup, and cast about for a new patient. I do not intend to stay on, once the new 'regime,' as it were, has taken effect. I will help ease the transition any way I can, and then I shall find gainful employment elsewhere. Incidentally the funeral is in four days, and there will be no autopsy, as per facility leadership. As such, this will be my final communication concerning data on this particular patient."

Martha placed this file back on the shelf, and pulled the next one. The Second Patient, once settled, was under the care of Dr. James McCrimmon.

"McCrimmon – 5/11/66. My patient, the Second Patient of Ward 40 (which the staff has now taken to calling Tardis Ward), arrived two days ago. Dr. Jackson and I helped him get settled, as this patient, unlike the previous, does not have any family to speak of. No children, no spouse, siblings are _persona non grata._

"Dr. Jackson departed this morning on holiday. He will return in two weeks to tie up loose ends, to which I look forward, because he would be interested to see the new development. When the patient arrived, he was suffering from standard delusions, of the type seen throughout the recorded history of mental health. The delusion would switch from one to the next, but always he was convinced that he was some important historical figure or another. His favourite was Napoleon – this was his most frequent guise. Others included Julius Caesar, Heinrich Himmler, Confucius, Amerigo Vespucci and William the Conqueror. And these are just the ones his previous care-givers know of. However, today, the patient announced that he is the Doctor. I have been treating him warily; his behaviour within his current delusion does not match any others of his from the past, and does not match the behaviour of a doctor. And I am not yet certain whether this particular delusion is to do with his new environment, in a hospital surrounded by doctors, or whether he heard talk of the previous patient's delusion, and is appropriating the imagery. Fortunately, the patient's delusions do not last longer than forty-eight hours, generally speaking, and according to his history, he will have switched to some other guise in a couple of days. As the other delusions resurface, I should be able to get a clearer reading on his mental state, and the story of this 'Doctor' of his."

"McCrimmon – 6/11/66. The patient persists today in calling himself 'the Doctor.' And even stranger, he has explained to me that he is not of this world, and implied that the room he stays in is his spaceship. This is perfectly in keeping with the previous patient. I am not sure how to proceed. I am absolutely flummoxed, nervous, somewhat regretful of having given Dr. Jackson permission to take a holiday before I became acclamated to my patient. I fear that the patient is even more fragile than before, and I must approach with extreme caution. I am confused, not sure what to think… I have never seen any phenomenon such as this. I must return to my research."

Martha could see that Dr. McCrimmon was taken aback by these revelations, as she was herself. She felt the whole phenomenon was totally weird, and could now see how the percetion of a "curse" or haunting could come about, especially if it happened again with the next patient, and the next. It was creepy, and more than just a coincidence. And she was coming to it forty years later, with prior knowledge, and tools to work with! She tried to imagine how it must have felt hearing those words coming from a totally independent patient, with no warning at all.

After this, Dr. McCrimmon began researching historical references to 'the Doctor' and travellers of time and space, and some of the aliens that the First Patient had named. He felt that given the Second Patient's historical obsessions, the Doctor might indeed be some relatively obscure figure from history, and the fact that the First Patient was delusional in the same way was merely a coincidence. But Dr. McCrimmon was discouraged after three days, and resolved to spend time with the patient, gather data, and wait for Dr. Jackson's return. The next few narratives were stories, like with the First and Tenth Patients, of aliens, battles, time travel and heroism, in which Dr. McCrimmon played a key role, but 'the Doctor' was the centre of the action.

Eventually, of course, Dr. Jackson returned.

"Jackson – 20/11/66. I am vexed in the extreme. Upon my return from holiday, Dr. McCrimmon was positively bursting to tell me that the Second Patient's delusion (bordering on schizophrenia) now matches that of the First. In addition, the Second Patient has never sustained a single delusion for longer than forty-eight hours, but his tenure as 'the Doctor' has now endured for fourteen days. I had previously been planning to take my services elsewhere as of Christmas, but now I believe I must, and want to, remain here at the BBC for another few months. I shall set my departure for six months from now, which will be May, 1967, unless the patient reverts to form. Curious, very, very curious."

Jackson and McCrimmon continued to work with the Second Patient, documenting his adventures in time and space, until the spring. At some point, once they were sure that the delusion was the same as the First Patient's, they inquired as to how the Doctor accounts for this change in his appearance and personality, wondering if he even noticed the change. The Second Patient reported that those of his alien species could perform a "renewal" of their bodies when they die, or are mortally wounded.

Martha's jaw dropped. The Doctor would "renew" himself all the way up to a Tenth incarnation? How long could this go on? Could the Doctor predict how many renewals he would have? Could the Doctor, the alien life form, live indefinitely? Would he account for his own final death if and when the hospital ever closed for good, or would the delusion travel with him to another facility?

Is it _this place_ causing the delusion, or something else? These, she reckoned, were questions the psychiatric staff had been asking for forty years. What made her think she could answer them now?

Dr. Jackson left the Tardis on 13 May, 1967, and Dr. McCrimmon was left alone with the patient.

She reckoned that this was a good place to stop. The reading had exhausted Martha's eyes and brain, and she realised she hadn't had any contact with her patient since her first day, except to force him to watch Shakespeare. It was time to see what effect this would have.

* * *

><p>She entered the Tardis room and the patient was seated at the table in the centre, having his lunch. He was reading a book, and did not acknowledge her. She glanced over his shoulder, and she could see that it was a Shakespeare play. She pulled his chart from the end of the bed. The patient had requested a copy of <em>Love's Labours Lost<em> the day before, and an orderly had brought it to him when he'd brought the evening meds.

"Doctor?" she asked.

He looked up and seemed to see her for the first time. He abandoned his lunch and his book and got to his feet in a hurry. He was dressed in the brown pin-striped suit today, and he said "I promised you a trip!"

She nodded.

With flourish, he pulled on a brown trench coat and fluttered his eyebrows at her. "Brave new world."

"Where are we?" she asked.

"Take a look."

She stepped toward him, and he seemed to lead her through an invisible door.

"Where are we?" she asked again. "Sorry, whole new language. _When _are we?"

"Somewhere before the invention of the toilet," he said.

"Are we safe? Can we move around and stuff?" she wanted to know. She was trying to work out whether this Doctor's rules of time travel were consistent with the others'.

"Of course we can, why do you ask?"

"It's like in the films," she reminded him. "You step on a butterfly, you change the future of the human race!"

"Tell you what then, don't step on any butterflies," he advised her flippantly. She thought she noted a bit of exasperation. "What have butterflies ever done to you?"

They established that the year was 1599, the year _Love's Labours Lost _was mounted at the Globe theatre. She asked a few more time-travel questions, including whether she, as a black woman, would be treated all right at this time in history, or what would happen if she accidentally killed one of her ancestors. He rather dismissed her questions – she would absolutely make sure to note that. It seemed to her that a delusion as detailed as this Doctor thing would bring with it some fairly stringent policies regarding travelling through time, and the social implications of displacing someone from the twentieth or twenty-first century, but the Tenth did not seem to have any of these concerns. She would definitely keep her eyes open for notes about the other patients expounding on such things.

He pointed out to her that 1599 was "not so different" from her time, including popular entertainment. He took her round to face the television, where the Shakespeare DVDs had apparently been playing on a loop. _Love's Labours Lost_ was just finishing up, and the patient began to applaud. Martha followed suit, including shouting "Author, author!" hoping it would provoke the patient to add William Shakespeare himself to the fantasy.

"Genius," the Doctor said. "He's a genius – _the _genius, the most _human _human there's ever been. Now we're going to hear him speak!"

_Fantastic, _Martha thought. _Shakespeare is here on stage!_

_"_Always, he chooses the best words, new, beautiful, brilliant words!" the Doctor told her, enthusiastically.

A pause, and then his face fell.

"You should never meet your heroes," he said. Apparently, Shakespeare had said something less than eloquent.

* * *

><p>"Dr. Martha Jones, 4 April, 2007, time is eighteen fifty-one. Today was my second meeting with the Tenth Patient, or the Tenth Doctor, whichever way we're choosing to see him. His delusion persists as I thought it would. He is continually exasperated with me because I'm not in-the-know on certain things, and he has been tacitly refusing to fill me in. I wonder if this is because he thinks I may be temporary. At one point, he stated that he doesn't like <em>starting from scratch<em> when I asked a question, and at another point, he reported, and I quote, _Rose would know_. I suspect he is still in transition…

"Anyway, a few days ago, I received a tour of the BBC facility and learned of the media piping, the ability to show the patient whatever audio/visual material I wish him to see. In light of the Doctor's apparent time-travelling ability, I began showing the patient videos of _Love's Labours Lost_, _MacBeth_ and a documentary on William Shakespeare that we had in the patient media library. As I predicted, today, the Doctor and I had a rollicking Shakespearean adventure. It was _very_ interesting, indeed! According to the documentary, Shakespeare wrote a play called _Love's Labours Won_, as a continuation of _Love's Labours Lost_, but it was… well, lost somehow. The Doctor's internal adventure today attempted to explain this, using Shakespeare himself as a character, as well as elements from MacBeth, namely the witches. Only, because the Doctor is an alien, the witches were not of an occult sort, they were, in fact, from another planet and were attempting to destroy the Earth with Shakespeare's words. I was immensely intrigued by the patient's ideas here. He stated that the aliens, the witches, use words as equations the way humans use numbers, and this causes things to happen. This is, apparently, how his pseudo-scientific delusion accounts for something as fantastical as witchcraft."

Martha laughed to herself. She thought about how strange it is that a completely delusional patient should have to come up with devices to accommodate fantastical elements.

"The witches were attempting to use the play _Love's Labours Won_ as their equation that opens some portal or other, and allows them to destroy our planet. The play was lost when Shakespeare himself shouted at them, using his unique words… and a little help from _Harry Potter_. That was my doing.

"I have been reading accounts of the First and Second Patients' tenure here, and one thing I have never run across is how the Doctor _processes_ information. But I believe I witnessed this happening. For part of the day, the patient had us in an old inn, and we lay on the bed together for a bit, while he basically thought aloud. I perceived that he was working out the physics of the whole affair in his head. This is notable because in all past accounts, the Doctor has just _known_ the answers, as though the delusional patient has written out the story beforehand. I also witnessed him doing something similar when we were, ironically, supposed to be in a jail cell at Bedlam. He began shouting about the number fourteen and its significance, and what it might have to do with the witch he was apparently seeing before him. This Doctor has a very different way of working through data – it's like, if he were a computer, his CPU would be transparent. You can almost _see _neurons firing and wheels turning. It's absolutely fascinating to watch.

"It's also fascinating to see how _input_ influences the delusion. I'd like to do a bit more research on this, more experiementation, to see how different things manifest. For example, if we put football on the telly, would we then be playing at the World Cup, trying to save the world from Zinedine Zidane? I can't wait to find out.

"I'm going to sign off now. My hope for the next couple of weeks is that the patient will acclamate to my presence, though it is interesting to see effects of an attachment to another psychiatrist…"

_Just keep your distance, Martha_, she told herself.


	5. Chapter 5

**So, I must apologize for sort of "glossing over" the 3rd Doctor's run, to those of you who (like me) are 3rd Doctor fans. I regret that it had to happen this way, since Liz Shaw is my second favorite companion! **

**I wanted to establish certain things, and doing a Liz Shaw/Jo Grant narrative didn't seem to fit. I needed to figure out how the 10th Patient got stimulated into the New Earth delusion, and what resulted was sort of a circular stream of consciousness thing about family and the Time Lords and the Face of Boe and some foreshadowing... whew. Not to mention Rose Tyler's problems and departure, and the problems Martha is facing with the 10th... double whew! Hope you enjoy it, and don't find it too much of a trainwreck!**

* * *

><p><span>FIVE<span>

"Good morning, Doctor," Martha chirped.

"Good morning, Martha Jones," the tall man chirped back. He had been pacing about the Tardis, thinking God Knows What.

"When was the last time you went out to lunch?"

He stopped in mid-stride and looked over her head, eyes narrowed. "Erm… not sure. 1830, maybe?"

She laughed. "Well, fancy having a sandwich on the promenade with me?"

He smiled widely. "It would be my pleasure."

She opened the Tardis door with her key card ID, and as he walked past her, he offered his arm. She took it, and for the first time since Martha had arrived at the BBC, the Tenth Patient left the Tardis.

At the end of the hall, Sarah Jane Smith was waiting for them. The patient didn't really seem to notice her for who she was – he simply said hello, and Martha didn't bother to introduce them, though she knew they had met before.

"Are you sure it's all right?" Sarah Jane whispered Martha as they walked behind the patient, following him out a side door.

"No," answered Martha, shrugging. "But there's only one way to find out. Don't worry, I'm coming armed." She brandished her mobile phone.

"What will you do if he tries to escape?"

"Call in the cavalry. The security staff know I'm taking him out today."

"Okay, but… Martha, he's a mental patient," Sarah Jane warned, as if Martha were a child. "Not your date. Don't ever forget that."

"What?" Martha asked, reacting in a knee-jerk fashion to what she felt was an accusation. When Sarah Jane put her hands on her hips and looked at Martha the way her grandmother used to when she _knew _Martha had stolen a biscuit from the tin, Martha said sheepishly, "I won't forget, I promise."

_Ugh, she knows_, thought Martha. _This was what she meant... this patient is different._

* * *

><p>And so, Martha Jones, Sarah Jane Smith and the Tenth Patient took sandwiches and smoothies together on a nearby promenade.<p>

"This is nice," Martha commented, walking along slowly, her tunafish on wheat in one hand, and her 'Superfood Extra' with added ginseng shoved precariously in between her index and middle fingers. "All right, Doctor?"

He nodded, biting into a Gyro. He seemed absent, delicate.

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" Sarah Jane said. "This little boardwalk wasn't here in my day. I guess it's part of one of those urban renewal things. Even though this isn't very urban at all."

"Well, everyone wants to be chic."

The three took a seat at a white metal patio table, overlooking a lake where ducks were busy migrating back and laying their eggs. For a few minutes, they just ate.

Sarah Jane stared at the patient for a few seconds, then sighed. "This brings back memories." The patient looked at her and gave her a little smile, then retreated back into his head, into whatever adventure or angst was currently occurring.

Martha observed. "Why doesn't he seem to know you?"

"I guess whatever's going on in his brain, it doesn't suit him to have me in there just now," Sarah Jane said.

"Which patient did you start with?" Martha asked. "I've got through all of the First Patient, and some of the Second Patient's files. Where do you come in?"

"I started with the Third Patient," Sarah Jane told her. "I sort of stumbled upon the job. I was just out of medical school, came in to do clerking and recording for the new electroshock treatment centre, but took a wrong turn and wound up in the Tardis."

"So did you know Dr. McCrimmon?" Martha asked, hopefully. She felt that Sarah Jane could link her up with history, in a way.

"No, he was gone before my time. But Al knew him."

"Al?"

"Yes, Alastair Lethbridge-Stewart. He was a specialist that Dr. McCrimmon sent for, back in the Second Patient's time. He was in and out and in and out all the time, starting in about 1968, and well into the eighties. Lovely, lovely man."

"Was he a doctor?"

"No, he was…" Sarah Jane chuckled. "Hm, it's funny his name should come up today, of all days."

"Why?"

"He was a Patient Escort. He would come every now and then and take the patients out into the world."

"Ah," Martha said, nodding. "They needed a specialist for that?"

"Well, he was extremely good at keeping them calm, and keeping them from disturbing people, while still getting them their exercise and whatnot. The patients all seemed to think he was some sort of military type, I supposed because they'd been told to take orders from him, and they were always very formal with him. It amused him, made him laugh." At this, Sarah Jane laughed a little herself.

"Did he work with all of them?"

"Most of them, yes," said Sarah Jane. "He's in his eighties now, and he's retired to Peru. And he was mostly here in the 1970's, but after that he did a lot of one-shot deals with the staff with one patient or another. Otherwise, the patients had to rely on the hospital's courtyard to get any fresh air."

"I suppose if today goes well, we can make this a regular thing," Martha said. "Maybe we don't need Al."

"Perhaps that might work. Although, there is a man named… Mace, I believe. He does some of the same type of work with some of the mental institutions round Britain. If you find that you can't handle him out in the world, then you should call Mr. Mace. I do think the patients need to stretch their legs sometimes… I just get nervous when it's us against them."

"Us against them," Martha chuckled, glancing at the man in the suit, finishing his lunch, totally docile and barely aware that he wasn't alone. "I wish you'd relax."

"I know, I know. It's just that each patient has had a different demeanour, even though the story is the same," Sarah Jane said, lowering her voice. "Even though 'the Doctor' is a good guy, he's got his volatile side. And this one, this young handsome one, has been no exception, Martha."

"How d'you mean?"

"Well, there was a psychiatrist who came in about three or four months ago, right around Christmas," Sarah Jane explained. "She was meant to be the replacement to, you know…" She cast her eyes over to the patient, letting Martha know that she didn't want to say Rose Tyler's name, or it would snap him out of his stupor and put him on alert.

"Gotcha."

"He was so distraught over losing… _She Who Must Not Be Named_, that his delusion included the murder of some kind of Spider Queen, and her entire family. I mean _he _murdered them. To save the Earth, yes, but apparently, within the fantasy, killing her children had been entirely unnecessary. Just a product of rage."

"Whoa. What a thing to walk into."

"Yeah. That's why I didn't tell you anything about the delusion before sending you in. I learned my lesson. I'd briefed this other lady ahead of time on the Doctor – benevolent alien, saving planets, being a nice bloke – and then she goes into this adventure with him, and it scared her to death. I never really got the whole story because she refused to stay long enough to do a narrative, but whatever it was, it was destructive and frightening, and she headed for the hills. I had to do the narrative, with what little info I had."

"Some psychiatrist," Martha said. "What, was she fresh out of the package?"

"No, she was experienced, but I think she'd been doing private therapy with outpatients."

"I see."

"So just be careful, Martha, all right? He's had some _morbid_ delusions before. It might happen again, and in any given delusion, it might include serious injury for his travelling companion, or maybe even himself. Even if the Doctor doesn't want it to happen, the patient is not the Doctor. The patient is driving the action."

Martha nodded. "Can you give me an example?"

Sarah Jane sighed. "Okay, well, when _She Who Must Not Be Named_ first arrived, the patient at the time, the Ninth, took her through watching the Earth get swallowed up by the sun. He didn't try to stop it or thwart it… he told her it was the natural order of things that five billion years in her future, the sun expands, and everything she has ever known dies in a fiery blaze. And they watched, and he narrated as her planet burned up."

Martha shifted in her chair. "Blimey."

"And shortly after that, he told her that _his_ home planet had burned up, and that he was the last of his species left in the universe. This revelation made him a very lonely soul. I know it greatly disturbed the hospital staff."

"It gives him a sort of tragic, romantic hero vibe, yeah?"

"Yep. Which I think might have led to _her_ undoing, partly," Sarah Jane said, staring again at the oblivious patient. "Anyway, after this guy, the Tenth, came in, he took her back to that time period, to a place where, apparently, the human race had rebuilt. The companion, in this scenario, got posessed by some sort of spirit. After that, he chained her to the radiator which was meant to put her in the line of danger with a werewolf. Then he strapped her to a gurney while robots tried to take her brain. What else? He put a bag over her head because a demon of some sort had taken her face… yeah, the list goes on. Be prepared to get kidnapped and magicked and dowsed with poison… whatever the human mind can conjure."

"Wow," Martha muttered.

* * *

><p>"This is Dr. Martha Jones, today is 14 April, 2007, nine-eighteen p.m. Dr. Smith and I took the patient out for an excursion yesterday, and I spent part of the afternoon finishing Dr. McCrimmon's narrative on the Second Patient, and reading the narratives from a Dr. Elizabeth Shaw and a Dr. Josephine Grant, both of whom tended to the Third Patient. They describe him as serious yet flamboyant, which I can't really picture... Anyway, I learnt quite a lot more about the history of our friend, the Doctor. I'm not sure quite how to make this all jibe in a linear way... I got a lot of information about the early 1970's, and some stuff from just before I arrived, all of which seems to be somewhat related, so bear with me, please.<p>

"For a start, there used to be a specialist called Al who frequently took the patients out of the Tardis and had adventures with them outside, in a capacity that perhaps the old, stuffier psychiatrists were not prepared to do. Drs. Shaw and Grant, though, were present for a lot of these excursions.

"Also - and oh, this is fascinating - I learnt that the Second Patient died just after a visit from his entire family. Dr. McCrimmon believed that something about the pressure of seeming 'on' or 'sane' for his family may have caused him to go into cardiac arrest… he wrote that the patient kept trying to justify his actions to his family, and that the siblings, a few times, threatened to take him away from the facility. Dr. Smith implied later on also that such visits from family have often been a great source of stress to the patient, which is why I won't see very much evidence in middle and later years of family involvement. In fact, the Ninth Patient rendered himself the _last of his kind_, which might be further indication that the patients are sharing each other's memories, and the Ninth might have had some residual awareness of the problems caused by family visits, and thus chose to paint himself as alone in the universe. I still have yet to get into Dr. Tyler's files, but I'm looking forward to reading what are no doubt fascinating insights from that time period!

"Speaking of Dr. Tyler, I learned a bit more about the Tenth Patient's reaction upon her departure. Apparently, he experienced some rather volatile behaviour, violent delusions which scared off at least one potential psychiatrist.

"I am determined to get the patient out of the Tardis a bit more often, hopefully without needing a specialist to do so. He is still young and vital, and could probably greatly benefit some outside exercise and stimulation. Though Dr. Smith did give me the name of a specialist who does some work similar to the storied Al, and advised me to contact him. Dr. Smith seemed extremely skittish about taking the patient out of the Ward, and warned me _fervently_ on several occasions to remember that the patient is a patient… not the Doctor, not my friend or... She seems constantly afraid for my safety and well-being. I'm beginning to think that while I'm watching the patient, she is watching me. She told me when I first arrived that she'd be gone by now… but she remains here, and does not talk of leaving. When she thinks I'm getting too familiar with him, she gets very nervous – is this why she is still here? She has said that she was called in during Dr. Tyler's tenure as a consultant, and I'm beginning to put together the reasons why, and am beginning to develop a theory as to why Dr. Tyler left… or was forced to leave.

"Even so, you know… erg. The more I think of Dr. Smith's worries, the more irritated I get. I am a professional, and yet I feel patronised. I know that the first cardinal rule of doctor-patient relations is…"

"Well, anyway, it's not Dr. Smith's fault. She's behaving rather in a motherly way, and I guess I should feel thankful to have her. And… well, we all know how mothers can be, eh? I will try to keep in mind that she has everyone's best interests at heart, and I will try not to be annoyed. That is my personal pledge to myself.

"But I digress. Back to Dr. Tyler, and the Tenth Patient's darker tendencies. Apparently, during Dr. Tyler's time with the Ninth Patient, he had her involved in watching the sun expand and swallow the Earth, which Dr. Smith characterised as _morbid_. A bit after that, the Tenth Patient returned with her to a later date when the human race had rebuilt on another planet. Dr. Smith went into a few details about times when the Tenth Patient had intentionally put the psychiatrist in danger in order to further his delusion… I should probably mention that the patient was present and eerily silent while this entire conversation was going on between me and Dr. Smith.

"Today, the Tenth Patient took _me_ to that same time period, and sure enough, I was drugged and kidnapped, just so that he could rescue me. There was also an occurrence a bit later in the day… I'm still not quite clear on it. Something that the patient called _The Face of Boe_ was present in the delusion, apparently a friend to the Doctor. It died, and seemed to tell the Doctor that he's not alone. But I had conversation with the patient about it afterwards, and this doesn't seem to mean that he now has _me_, it seems to mean that the Ninth Patient's assertion that he's the last of his kind is now false, that another of his species exists somewhere, that the Tenth Patient's psyche is adjusting to the inherited memory. I suppose if I looked hard enough, I'd see evidence of each patient ret-conning the continuity of the Doctor, throughout the history of the Ward. So, perhaps the Tenth Patient is winding up for a family visit? Trying to tell us that he's willing to take on more? If he does, indeed, share the memories of pervious Tardis patients, and he has vestigial memories of family members, perhaps he's missing them, trying to open a door?

"Perhaps next week, I will introduce the idea of _family_ to him, and we'll see if he's ready to deal.

"Dr. Smith, if you are listening, I apologise for my railing against your advice. I'm just…"

Martha opened her mouth to say more, but then stopped.

"Good night."


	6. Chapter 6

**Aagh! This was hard! Aagh!**

* * *

><p><span>SIX<span>

Martha walked into the BBC a little earlier than usual, excited for what the day might bring. All of her stimulus experiments with her patient had yielded very interesting results, so today, she was going to introduce the Doctor to her family, as it were. She was armed with a leather satchel filled with framed photos of her brother, sister and mother (upon inspection, this morning, she hadn't been able to find a similar recent photo of her father… she suspected her mum had come in and hidden them secretly, in one of her insane waves of bitterness during the divorce).

But when she slid her card key through and opened the Tardis door, the patient was nowhere to be found.

"Doctor?" she said. "Are you here? Are you hiding?"

She walked around the room and inspected – not that there were very many places he could be concealing himself. He wasn't at the table, he wasn't in bed, and she checked in the little adjacent courtyard – not there either.

A panic welled up inside Martha and lodged in her throat. She swallowed hard, and forced it back down. She imagined the worst. She had been so lax with him, so sure that he was docile and would not escape, that he had done just that. Had he simply received her "message" that being out in the world was good, and overpowered one of the night nurses and got out? Or had Martha herself left the door unlocked? Or had one of the nurses or orderlies done it?

"Oh God, oh God," Martha said to herself over and over again. She threw her satchel on the bed and began to pace back and forth, her wedgie heels clacking on the tiled floor of the Tardis. "Okay, Martha, just calm down. Think, think. You know him pretty well, him and the Doctor… where would he go? What would he try to do?"

She grabbed his chart, looking for notes on the last inspection which proved he was in the facility. If she could ascertain a time of departure, then maybe she could send out a search party. But all she saw from last night's minutes were how the patient had been watching depression-era flicks in the wee hours of the morning.

"Shit!" she said aloud. But then again, they do hourly checks here. If one of the nurses or orderlies had noticed he wasn't in his room, they would have said something to security, and security should have called her straight away!

First, she decided, it's best to check with the in-house security to see…

"Dr. Jones?" she heard a voice calling from outside the door. It was Sarah Jane Smith's voice. "Dr. Jones, are you here?"

"I'm here!" Martha called out, sticking her head out the door.

Sarah Jane jogged down the hall to meet her. "Martha," she said breathlessly. "You've got to come."

"What's going on? Where's the patient?"

"He's in a meeting."

"What? How could he be in a meeting?"

"You'll see for yourself."

"Is it part of a delusion?"

"Oh, it's so much worse than you think…"

Sarah Jane led Martha into a conference room. Seated at the table were three men and one woman. One of the men was a middle-aged, strong-looking, intelligent-looking black man. Another was a young, thin white man. The woman was tall, thin, blonde and flashy-looking, and Martha had never laid eyes on any of them before. The fourth person at the table, sitting across from the other three, was the Tenth Patient. When he saw her, he gave her a look that was a mixture of worry and _thank God you're here_. He stood up and hugged her, then pulled out a chair for her, next to where he'd been sitting.

"Gentlemen, this is Dr. Martha Jones," said Sarah Jane coldly to the group. "She's the Chief Psychiatrist _in charge of this patient's case."_ She said these last six words with a brutal emphasis, in a manner that suggested she was too British, and too much of a lady, to say to these people what they really deserved to hear.

"Thank you, Dr. Smith," the black man said, waving Sarah Jane away dismissively, without even looking at her. From his accent, she could hear that he was American.

Sarah Jane left the room, and the black man stood up to shake Martha's hand. "Dr. Jones, hello. I'm Dr. Solomon, and this is our intern, Frank. This is Talullah, our stenographer."

Frank said hello to Dr. Jones, calling her by name, and she could hear that he was from somewhere in the American south. When Talullah said, "Nice to meet you," Martha distinctly heard hard-boiled New York coming out of her mouth.

"Nice to meet you, indeed," Martha said without smiling, or any hint of friendliness. She switched her attention back to Solomon and said, "Mind telling me why the hell my patient has been moved from the Ward without my consent?"

"Well, I'm getting to that, if you'll give me a second," said Solomon. "I work for the guy who owns this joint. Mr. Diagoras is the grandson-in-law of the woman who originally opened the facility, back in 1963. I am sort of like a scout. I come in, assess the situation, and report back to my boss."

"Assess the situation?"

"Yes," he said, clearning his throat. Martha was glad that he was uncomfortable. He bloody well should be. "I come in and interview some of the patients, and evaluate whether any progress is being made."

She was incredulous. "What gives you the right to do that without informing me?"

"Mr. Diagoras demands it."

"Demands it? What are you, his toady?"

"It's complicated."

"It's a breach of medical ethics, that's what it is!"

"Dr. Jones, I understand why you're upset," Solomon said in a way that was neither too-calm-to-be-real nor condescending. "But if you will just let me finish my interview with your patient, everything will become clear, I promise."

Martha bore holes into the man's eyes with her own. She was furious with the situation, but she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Though, she was aware even then that if his tone had been one degree more or less sympathetic, she'd be throwing things at him.

"Fine," she said, with a click of her tongue. She sat back in her chair, and crossed her arms and legs, waiting to see what would happen. If nothing else, she wanted more information about this whole mess, and wanted to know why she hadn't been informed.

"Thank you," said Dr. Solomon. "Now, Doctor, you understand what's been happening?"

The patient nodded. He turned to Martha and said secretively, "Some of their people have been disappearing. They're not sure why."

Martha caught sight of Dr. Solomon and Frank glancing at one another.

The patient continued. "They're practically being taken in the night, leaving all of their things behind."

"Okay," Martha said to him. "So the mystery deepens."

"Looks like our little detour just got longer," said the patient.

Solomon began speaking again. "Doctor, what I'm trying to tell you…"

"Hooverville. There are places like this all over America," the patient continued to whisper to Martha. "I wonder how many of them have people disappearing in the night." He gave her a secret sideways look that indicated seriousness, and that they had their work cut out for them.

As always, Martha played along, and returned the serious look.

Dr. Solomon became slightly exasperated, seeing that he wasn't going to get the patient's undivided attention again. "Look, Dr. Jones, I've been trying to warn the patient of something. You see, the man we work for is slightly… out of touch. He sends me in to assess, but he doesn't listen very well, and…"

Martha softened because Dr. Solomon had softened. Something in his eyes and tone told her she wasn't going to like Mr. Diagoras, and that Solomon was really on their side, at least philosophically. One look at Frank and Talullah told her the same. There was worry and remorse there. Talullah even caught her eye and shrugged apologetically.

It was then that the door opened. A man in a black pin-striped suit sauntered in. He looked smug and blustery, as though he wanted everyone in the free world to think he was the most powerful man in it. He was unremarkable, though, very average, and did not seem to Martha like someone who had a lot of money.

"Good morning, all," he said, his thick accent matching that of Talullah. He turned to Martha and crossed his arms, looking down at her. "You must be Dr. Jones. They call me Diagoras. Is this the patient?"

She didn't answer. She just stared at him with disbelief, until he said, "I'll take that as a yes. Solomon, what have you got for me, my friend?"

"Does it matter?" asked Dr. Solomon with an annoyed shrug.

"Oh, come on now," Diagoras said. "Don't be like that. Our patrons will be here any second, and I need to know what to tell them."

Solomon sighed, clearly reluctant to have his boss see his notes and the transcript that Talullah had taken. Under his breath, Solomon said to Frank, "Again, I ask, does it matter?"

Mr. Diagoras skimmed the notes and said, "More of the same, I see." He looked at Martha with something that resembled disapproval, and raised one eyebrow at her. "No sign of lucidity."

Martha stared at him.

"Can you account for this stagnation, Dr. Jones?"

"May I see your credentials, please?" she asked.

"Excuse me?" he asked, as though he were a father talking to an insolent child.

"You're a total stranger. You say you're the owner, but how the hell do I know that? No-one's bothered to keep me in the bloody loop, have they? And furthermore, if you're going to talk to me about my patient and treat me like a grad student, I'll assume you have at least a medical degree." She kept her tone even.

"I own this facility."

"Being a bureaucrat makes you qualified to comment on the state of a chronically delusional mental patient?"

"Our facility has certain goals, Dr. Jones…"

"I don't care. I'm not justifying myself, or my patient, to you." She was aware that she was being more than just a little pig-headed. Technically, she realised, Diagoras was her boss. But she had never been a person who reacted well to being kept in the dark, and she had come to terms with that part of her personality. It was a side of her that demanded a certain independence, and she did not like it threatened. So, for the moment, she gave herself permission to take time to adjust to the situation.

"Again, I remind you, I own this facility," Diagoras said, bending down to put his hands on the conference table, as though this stance would intimidate her. "I could close it down in a heartbeat. If you don't believe me, try me."

She got to her feet, careful to keep her tone stern, but professional. "You've highjacked my work! You've blind-sided me! I don't know what they've taught you where _you _come from, but here on Earth, this is not the way to get people to cooperate."

"Always worked before," he said, almost threateningly.

"Won't work with me," she shot back, matching his tone.

"Dr. Jones, I'm going to need a full report _right now_."

Martha sat back down and looked at the black man sitting across from her. His eyes were narrowed and his forehead was wrinkled in an expression that said, "Oh, I hate when this happens." Frank and Talullah looked shellshocked.

"Dr. Solomon, the patient suffers from pervasive delusions with no periods of apparent lucidity," she said, pretending Diagoras wasn't there. "I'm new here, but from what I can tell, all of the Ward 40 patients have been similarly afflicted – they call it the 'historical' delusion. I'm not sure what the _goals_ of the facility are, but if it's to bring an innured mental patient out of the 'historical' delusion, then I am afraid you're barking up the wrong tree."

"Pharmacology?"

"I've adjusted very little since I arrived. All I've done is up the Lithium by two hundred milligrams per day to stabilise his moods. He was showing signs of hyperactivity and depression in rapid turns. Seems to be working for now."

Solomon nodded evenly and made a few notes.

"What does that mean?" Diagoras shouted. "That he's never going to get better and we just have to live with it?"

"Mr. Diagoras, please," Solomon said to him. "I'm the doctor here, let me handle this end of it, all right? This is what you've hired me for."

"I was right, wasn't I?" the blustery boss said, beginning to pace. "More of the same."

"Sir, you can't just wave a magic wand and extract a patient from the illness," Frank tried. "You take them out of society so that they are not a danger to anyone. That's why this facility exists."

"Frank, when I want your input, I'll tell you what to say, all right?"

While Mr. Diagoras was grandstanding in Frank's face, the door opened once again. Four men, all looking remarkably similar, entered the room. They were severe-looking, tall and rotund. Martha guessed that they were probably all brothers.

"Dr. Jones, these are the facility's patrons," Solomon explained. "The BBC's largest monetary contributors."

Martha looked at her patient, sitting on her right. He was staring at them with utter contempt, and something bordering on fear. "They always survive," he whispered through clenched teeth. "They always survive, while I lose everything."

* * *

><p>Martha Jones burst into a small office currently occupied by Sarah Jane Smith and slammed the door behind her. "Who <em>the hell <em>are those Daleks?"

Sarah Jane smiled bitterly. "Oh, the Fun Brothers. Just be glad they're all from out-of-town."

"I thought Greeks were supposed to be wise an innovative!"

"Not _that _family," Sarah Jane scoffed.

"How can Dr. Solomon work for that lot? Diagoras and the bureaucrats from hell!" Her voice was higher and more shrill than she would have liked. "He seems like he has a clue!"

"I know, I know," said the older doctor. "All the decent ones think they can change the system from the inside. Unfortunately, they usually get fired."

"And what's all that noise about _exterminating_ the program?"

"It's just that, Martha," Sarah Jane said, standing up and coming round the desk. She sat down on the edge. "It's noise. They say that every time they come in here. Their funding keeps us going, so they come in every year or so, shout and scream about how they're going to shut us down if we don't start doing things their way, and they usually target the Tardis patient the hardest. It's like they come in here just to give _him_ a hard time."

"But four nurses are gone! And the patient, he was so wound up, I had to give him Valium. I hate that. He's a bloody zombie now!"

"It's what the Daleks do. They threaten to take over the world, and we can usually fight them off, but there are always casualties. They think they know who's being productive and who is dead weight, just from one observational visit. Someone gets the axe every time, usually three or four someones."

Martha's little hands were balled up into fists. "I don't know if I can work here, if they're at the helm, Sarah Jane," Martha said. "I can't work like this!"

"Now, calm down," Sarah Jane said, taking Martha's shoulders. She had had her share of go-rounds with the Daleks, and hated, hated, hated them. But she was still here even now, still alive for it, and adventures in the conference room with the paper-pushing enemies had taught her a lot.

But she could see the fear and anger in the eyes of the young, idealistic doctor who still really wanted to change the world. "Like I said, they live in a completely different part of the world. And Diagoras, he's lives in a glass tower in the other direction. They turn up once a year, and yes, they cause carnage – we lose a nurse or an orderly or a file clerk or two – but then they're gone. You are still doing _a lot _of good here, with your patient. He needs you, Martha. Think of _him_, not the enemies."

Martha sighed and reluctantly tried to take Sarah Jane's advice.

"And let me tell you," Sarah Jane said. "I was here when it all started. It was ugly, ugly."

* * *

><p>Around 1973, doctors of the Tardis began using tapes to do their narratives. Martha was still shaking, trying to calm down and put the Dalek problem into perspective, when she pressed play. An exhausted-sounding, familiar female voice came through the speaker.<p>

"This is Dr. Sarah Jane Smith. Today is the 12th of April, 1975, the time is eight-thirty-one p.m. It has been a _harrowing_ day. But first, I'd better sort of catch up on what's been going on the last few weeks. It's been an ugly mess over patronage, and I am ashamed to say, Harry and I have got a bit more involved that was probably necessary or appropriate, _and_ our patient got dragged into it as well. The only consolation is that it's done now, and we can only hope that the Daleks don't destroy us in the next few years.

"Right, so… as I've mentioned, the BBC has been in peril lately – lack of funding. There's been talk of finding an outside patron to keep the facility afloat, and the BBC has been sort of trying to engage them, using the case of 'The Doctor' as our flagship cause. A Greek family called Dalek has been interested, and the patriarch, or whatever you want to call him, his name is Davros. To say that he's inflexible is putting it mildly, and yet, his research into mental health issues has been highly… well, unique. And his business practises, as I understand it, have been inventive as well, but that's not necessarily a good thing. It should be said that his British partner, Ronson, bailed out a few weeks ago, calling Davros' experiments unethical.

"Thing is, there's also been the Thal family from Germany who have expressed interest. Frankly, Harry and I have been pulling for them… though we don't discuss that outside of this office."

_Who's Harry?_ Martha thought. She supposed she'd find out.

Sarah Jane's voice on the tape rose in volume and pitch, and she began slurring her words a little, as she couldn't get them out fast enough.

"But to our surprise, the Daleks and the Thals have been meeting with each other secretly as well, making secret deals, and the Thals thought they were doing it to screw _us _over. Well_, not _surprisingly, however, that bastard Davros sabotaged the whole thing, and completely double-crossed them. I don't know what possessed the Thals to send in one of the younger ones, but Davros might as well have run him down with his bloody Rolls Royce! He not only secured the Daleks the position as primary patrons of the BBC, but he also somehow managed to swindle the Thals out of seventy-five per cent of their business interest! And then, he shut down all of the Thals' businesses in Britain, which put something like eight hundred people out of work! No warning, no severance, nothing. Just… _pfft. _Zap, gone! The Thals are effectively out of business, or at least they will be if the Daleks so choose, and hundreds of families have lost their primary source of income! That… bloody…

"Ugh, I can't even… I can't even articulate. I'm so angry, I could scream. All I want to do is shout obscenities into the tape, so perhaps I should just say good night. Good bloody night."

The sound of the 'stop' button being hit very hard resonated through the speaker. In spite of herself, Martha smiled. She had only seen the concerned, motherly side of Sarah Jane Smith. The curt spitfire she was hearing on the tape seemed like a totally different person, although the passion Martha had seen in both the elder and the younger was absolutely consistent.

"Good morning, it's 13 April, 1975, five past nine in the morning, this is Dr. Harry Sullivan. As Dr. Smith began to say in her entry, yesterday was somewhat harrowing. We met the storied Davros, as he came in, ostensibly, to introduce himself to the facility. But when he said the facility, he meant Ward 40. He meant _our_ patient. He seems to be gunning for the Tardis! Dr. Smith and I could see the danger straight away, and we tried to intercede, but facility leadership insisted that we do as the blowhard asked. He took the patient into a room and absolutely _grilled _him, and Dr. Smith and I were not allowed to say anything – nothing to clarify, nothing to question, nothing to protect our patient in any way. Davros asked him what he knew of the Dalek family, what he knew of the Thals, what he knows of business practice, the Greeks, the Germans… asked him specific questions about the future (as he knows of the delusion of the Doctor, and his time-travelling abilities). For hours this went on, and he would not tell his motive.

"Interestingly, Davros asked the patient how he perceives the Daleks, and this might have yielded the only _useful_ information of the day. The patient, as always, answered in the guise of the Doctor, which means he never answers a question directly. The description he gave was vague, but we were able to gather that in his mind, the Dalek cousins and brothers, whom the patient has met before, are six-foot robots with the power to 'exterminate' (which is a word that the Daleks use when they are threatening to pull the plug on their funding), and the Doctor is their archenemy. Dr. Smith and I have agreed to revisit this, and actually try to rid him of this perception. Normally we wouldn't bother, but we don't believe it is healthy for him to have an archenemy at all. Perhaps we can convince him to 'turn' the robots to the side of good, or to destroy the whole race of them, so he can free himself from that particular stress.

"It was rather a pathetic sight, actually. The patient, who is a large man not normally to be trifled with, looked terrified, and he kept looking at Dr. Smith with fear or sorrow or apology in his eyes, while he was submitting to the interview…"

At this point, there was no sign of the toadying Martha had seen "facility leadership" do in the face of the Daleks, and no sign that the owners were sending in scouts like Dr. Solomon to assess the situation. She reckoned, like all big business, the people with the money became more and more hands-off over time, choosing instead to administer the death blows from afar, without the full information.

Martha dug into a sub-file that seemed to be attached to the narrative tapes from this period. She found three tapes labelled, "Davros/Fourth Patient Interview 12/4/75." She listened to parts of the five-hour interview. Davros sounded like a dreadful person, his voice high-pitched but somehow gravelly, mocking and heavily accented. The Fourth Patient's voice, the first time she'd heard a patient's voice that was not her own patient, was very low, resonating and regal. If he weren't completely insane, he might have done radio dramas or voiceover work. Most of his answers were Doctor-like, alternatingly pseudo-scientific, entertaining, and crazy, and they indicated that he felt that he, the Doctor, and the Daleks had been in skirmishes before.

This sent bells ringing in Martha's head. The patient perceived the Daleks as such a threat, they had so quickly burroughed into his psyche, that he actually believed that they were a pervasive memory. He believed that they were an enemy he had been facing since he was his "first" self, by now the idea that the Doctor 'renews' or 'regenerates' an accepted concept within Ward 40. This was indeed worrisome. It was even more worrisome that Drs. Smith and Sullivan were not able to divest the Fourth Patient of this belief, and the threat of the Daleks has carried through even into 'the Doctor's' tenth incarnation. Martha resolved, like Harry and Sarah Jane, to revisit the Dalek problem.


	7. Chapter 7

SEVEN

"This is Dr. Sarah Jane Smith, 22nd October, 1976, one-seventeen p.m. I saw the patient off this morning. He seemed sad. I'll need to have a serious talk with him when he returns – well, as serious as one can have with him."

Sarah Jane's voice was forlorn and regretful, yet confused, and had then changed to affectionate and reminiscent.

Her tone had softened considerably over the past year. Even though Martha had taken loads of tapes and files home, and made a point to listen to all of Sarah Jane's narratives back-to-back overnight, she had noticed the gradual shift. Especially after Dr. Sullivan had departed in the fall of 1975. Martha wasn't sure whether it was the medium of tape-recorded accounts making the difference, but she had remarked a whimsy and affection in the narrative of Sarah Jane Smith, a phenomenon that had not existed in the accounts of previous psychiatrists.

But it wasn't just her tone. It was the increasingly careful choice of words, and the length of analysis shortening. It was cutting off sentences, realising that she didn't want to say what she'd begun saying. It was the glaring omission of her own feelings on certain occasions. These were things Martha had caught herself doing as well. These had been times when she'd wanted to say how much she liked the patient, how charming she found him, how handsome, how clever, how much she enjoyed being with him, how she felt alive when he touched her. Part of it was a measure of shame, both for the feelings themselves, and for being unprofessional, no matter how out of her control it was.

But mostly, it was fear of being found out and dismissed. She had _never_ been fired before, and how awful it would be if it was _for this_.

And now, in Sarah Jane Smith, she was recognising a bit of herself. Sarah Jane was maternal and concerned and soft and had the eyes and demeanour of an experienced doctor. But she had once been young, foolish and apparently, in love.

The narrative continued. "He received a sudden call from home, from his family, and they've taken him for the week. I sent all of his medications with him, in separate plastic containers, along with notes about how to treat him, when he should be medicated, when they should phone me, etc. But, I suppose I could do with a rest, so I'll be going home now. I'll be back on the 29th when the patient's brother drops him back off at the BBC. Over and out!"

When the sound picked up again, there was about a five-second delay after the recording device was open, during which Sarah Jane didn't speak. Then, Martha distinctly heard her swallow hard, and then, her voice came through strained and sad. "This is Dr. Sarah Jane Smith, 23rd October, eight a.m. This will be my final narrative. I have been dismissed from the BBC. It has been deemed that I am too 'close' with my patient, that I have become inappropriately attached to him, and vice versa."

A long pause ensued while Martha listened and tried to keep her composure.

Sarah Jane spoke slowly. "As I am leaving this narrative, officially, as a record of care for the doctor who shall replace me, I shall, in a few moments, go into the particulars of the patient's medication, his routine, his care, his tendencies, how to keep him calm, et cetera. But in the spirit of full disclosure…"

This phrase gave Martha the chills. She had said this herself on more than one occasion in her recordings, usually to confess some kind of activity that could be deemed inappropriate by 'facility leadership' or whomever might be listening to the narratives.

"But in the spirit of full disclosure, here is the truth. I wish to clarify, first of all, that nothing romantic or sexual has ever occurred between me and my patient. On a few occasions, we have hugged or held hands when the delusion demanded it, but that is all. Our relationship has been outwardly platonic. Outwardly.

"Inside, it is a bit more complicated. I am guilty of omitting details of the patient's behaviour, of my own reactions, of my own feelings, analyses and conclusions because it would alert facility leadership to certain possibilities, and I am afraid of an inquiry. This is because I am, in fact, guilty of having perhaps some feelings toward him which… let's say, venture outside of the strictly professional. And I believe he feels the same toward me. Perhaps it is right that we are being separated from one another, given the circumstances.

"I warn the next doctor: there is something in the air in the Tardis. Perhaps it is simply that the Doctor is charming. He's a lovely, lovely man and becoming part of his delusions, his adventures, his… inner world, it can be intoxicating. It can be enthralling. Watch your step, keep your wits about you, and above all, remember this: you are the doctor. You. Not him."

From there, she went into the details she had promised, the medication, the care and feeding inside the Tardis. Martha ran her hands hard down over her face. She took a break for a contemplative cup of chamomile, then continued through the files, even though this marked the end of Sarah Jane Smith's initial tenure in the Tardis.

After that, the Fourth Patient had some short-term female psychiatrists, though neither of them seemed to have the fondness for the patient as Sarah Jane, and vice versa. Martha reckoned that was a good thing.

Then, in 1980, a team of three psychiatrists came on at the same time, a motley crew of (to her way of thinking, presumptuous) foreigners who thought they could whip the place into shape. An Armenian called Dr. Alzarian, an Australian Dr. Jovanka and a Norwegian Dr. Traken. They did mostly written narratives on the Fourth Patient, and from their writings, she could see that they did a lot more bickering amongst each other than helping the patient. Their narratives were filled with debunking each other's theories, doing experiments to disprove one another, and saying things like, "I must respectfully disagree." There was very little useful information about the patient gathered during the short time they worked with him, other than the fact that he was starting to become just a bit surly and obstinate. Martha wished she could be a fly on the wall, if only to see whether this was the result of their lack of attention to him, or his irritation at hearing the three of them scratching at each other all the time.

But toward the end of the Fourth Patient's life, apparently their narratives became much more consistent. There was actually a disclaimer and legal release signed by all three psychiatrists, from someone who had come through afterwards and amalgamated the three narratives from that period into one record. The information was much the same, remarkably, and the "tidbits," they felt, were interconnected. The trio reckoned it would be valuable to put it all together to get a bigger picture of the complex character that was the Fourth Patient, who had a longer stay in the Tardis than any other patient, even to date. Martha found some typed pages attached to all of the hand-written ones from the motley crew, the style of language much more closely resembling a bulleted handout than an actual narrative.

But Martha looked up at the clock and realised it was four in the morning. Normally, she tried to get to the BBC round eight, which meant she'd have to be up in two hours. Her bed was beginning to sound mightily inviting.

* * *

><p>She was an hour late, but that's not what the fuss was about.<p>

"Who is this?" Sarah Jane was asking her, trying not to seem too agitated. It didn't work. Martha could see the agitation straight away. She was holding up a picture of Leo, Martha's brother.

"That's my brother, why?" Martha said.

"Did you leave this in the patient's quarters?"

"Yes, I suppose I did," Martha told her. "I was going to see the effects of introducing the idea of family to him, when I got distracted by the Dalek debacle. What's the problem today, Dr. Smith?" Martha was aware of her tone becoming a bit hard. She was just a bit tired of Sarah Jane knowing more about her patient than she did, and only because Martha didn't come in as early.

Sarah Jane sighed. "Sorry, Martha. I just don't want you to get into trouble. And right now…" She let her arms, and the picture drop to her sides.

"Right now, what?"

"It looks like you're going down the same road I did, in more ways than one."

Martha was silent. She now knew what Sarah Jane meant. The ladies gave each other meaningful looks, each of them just a little bit embarrassed.

"I'm not… I'll be careful. Keep my distance…"

"It's not just that," Sarah Jane continued, "It's just, the decision was made a couple of years ago to keep the Tardis patient away from family."

"I know. But why?"

"It causes problems. Obviously, you've got to the end of my narrative, yeah?"

"Yes," Martha said quietly. "It's kind of heartbreaking."

"Well, I was heartbroken. But that's not the point," Sarah Jane said, then sighed again. "Have you got to the end of the Fourth Patient's life?"

"No, I was just about to read it, but it was late, so I went to bed."

"Well, Martha, as you know, my patient… the Fourth Patient, he got called home. He went to spend time with his family and… well, it wound up being very, very ugly for him in the end. It was something that could have been prevented if anyone had had the foresight to cut him off from them early on."

Martha took Leo's photo from Sarah Jane. "Has he even seen these yet?"

"He has," Sarah Jane told her, gravely. "He was looking at them last night, even took them out of their frames and looked at what was written on the backs of the pictures themselves. Sorry – he did it before anyone could stop him. Anyway, he wants to see you very badly, and he put on a tux this morning. God only knows why, and it's concerning, Martha. Very concerning indeed."

Martha gulped. "Well, it's no use standing round here talking about it. Let's see what's going on."

She turned and slid her key card through the slot and entered the Tardis. The patient was, indeed, wearing a tux. He wore it well, she noticed, before catching herself.

"A purple dress," he said to her, looking her up and down. "It's a nice change for you."

Martha looked down at her attire. She was wearing grey trousers and a pink button-up blouse. But if he liked her in purple, then she supposed she was wearing purple today.

* * *

><p>"Dr. Martha Jones, 5th May, 2007, eleven twenty-five. My patient wore me out today, and I'm running on almost no sleep. But I <em>had<em> to get the Alzarian/Jovanka/Traken narratives read.

"I was met by Dr. Smith this morning, warning me that introducing the idea of family to the patient could have disastrous consequences. I had initially wanted to do so because his delusion from a few weeks ago included finding out that the Doctor is not the last of his kind, and I thought perhaps we would see some vestiges of the so-called inherited memory from past patients. But Dr. Smith pointed out that the decision was made two years ago to keep family out of the picture, and I am now starting to understand why.

"The Fourth Patient had had ties to home, and saw his family every now and then. In fact, he was visiting family when Dr. Smith was dismissed from her post here for…

"Anyway, he was close with his family, but Alzarian, Jovanka and Traken reported consistently that one brother was a bad sort, and on an outing, the patient himself actually discovered that the brother had taken out a large life insurance policy on him, and had sacked a lot of the agents and social workers assigned to his case, outside the hospital. Well, through all the red-tape, a glitch in the system had put the patient in danger of possibly being forcibly removed from the facility, which no-one but the brother thought was a good thing. Finally, the brother actually _came here_ to the BBC and threatened to have it shut down, on some trumped-up malpractice grounds – it would have been the thing that finally gave him control of the patient's life and therefore, his death. The staff were convinced he'd kill the patient for the insurance money. The doctors here were aware that the brother was a nasty piece of work, and wanted to protect the patient, but he heard his brother's voice, pushed past Dr. Jovanka and went to the front offices where his brother was, and the two of them actually got into a scuffle. Some orderlies injected him with a tranquiliser, and he reported then that he felt he was falling…"

Martha was silent for a moment, thinking, mourning a man she had never met. She was also thinking of Sarah Jane, and how she must have felt, if and when she heard the news.

"The tranquiliser killed him. They had overdosed him, and he'd been allergic to… I don't remember… one of the organic compounds they were using at the time. But it's always been perceived that the brother was the cause of his death. And because it all happened before anyone could do anything about that insurance policy, the brother actually did profit from the patient's death."

Martha sighed sadly.

"In the Fourth Patient's mind, all of this manifested as an epic battle between himself and some villain from his home planet. The Master, he called him. The Master killed a bunch of mathematicians who were supposed to be helping the Doctor to repair his Tardis spaceship or something… and then the whole world began to unravel. The Master was holding the universe hostage. I suppose in the patient's mind, he _fell_ to his death, because that's what he said when he was tranquilised and dragged back to his room."

She was getting emotional now.

"I just… I can't get my mind round it, how scary it could have been, must have been, for the Fourth patient. He's pretty well helpless within his delusions, and he's got this arsehole of a brother who insists on sabotaging everything, and what can anyone do? Then he dies on them…

"Dr. Smith has been very keen that I be careful around the patient, and I'm starting to see…"

Martha was aware of herself, again, omitting feelings. But she couldn't bring herself to articulate them aloud, to say that she felt she was falling for her patient. She was punishing herself enough already, she didn't need some BBC official or a Dalek coming in and scolding her for behaving like a schoolgirl. She was sure she could regain her professional manner and shake off the feeling, so she felt there was no need to alert anyone now. If she could get over this, then there would be no record of any unprofessional behaviour or sentiment, and she wouldn't have to live with the Tenth Patient's deep brown eyes on her resumé _and_ her soul.

"I'm also starting to see why she wants the concept of family kept out. I mean, don't get me wrong. I haven't forgotten that I'm his doctor, and I'm in charge, but I'm now much more aware that I should be listening to Dr. Smith's advice, better than I have been. If my patient has memories of the Fourth Patient's fight with his brother, and a death at his hands, then… oh God. And I can't shake the feeling that this day is going to come back to haunt me. Like I've been given this story of the Doctor and the Master at a time when I really _needed _to see it, namely at a time when I'm also dealing with the Doctor and my own family, which I'll get into in a minute. I just… I don't know. This Tardis is getting to me. It's like it's getting into _my_ head, as much as it's in the patient's.

"Luckily, the Tenth Patient did not, upon seeing photos of my brother and sister, have horrifying flashbacks of the Fourth Patient's brother. I was ready for disaster, and so was Dr. Smith. Though, I think the tuxedo concerned her more than anything! Maybe she thought the patient was going to act out a wedding with me or something, I don't know. But it turned out to be this really bizarre cocktail party thing, where my mother and sister and brother were also guests. It was very interesting to me that he chose to incorporate _my _family into his delusion, rather than having it trigger something of his own family, or some long-buried contiguous memory from the Doctor's world. He was told by the Face of Boe in a previous delusion that he's not alone… interesting indeed. Why would he care to include my family? He went through the motions of meeting them, making sure to keep our lot as time travellers very hush-hush. One of the orderlies came in to deliver his lunch during this time, and the orderly manifested in the delusion as a mutated monster of some sort. It was a wholly unexpected turn of events."

Martha omitted one final thought from her narrative, that of thinking she may have to break protocol and find out her patient's name and family history. That is something that is _really_ considered a no-no for the Tardis patient, but she felt that she had put the patient in peril today, and needed to know how badly. Specifically, she wondered whether he had a brother. But she decided to give it a week, and if she still felt this way, she'd do it. If the feeling had passed, she'd leave it alone.

"I am exhausted, and am not planning on seeing the patient tomorrow. And I won't be experimenting on him for a while. We'll just see what he's got for me. Good night."


	8. Chapter 8

EIGHT

She didn't know his name. She didn't know his age. She didn't know anything about his childhood. Up until now, she had been able to accept that.

But operating this way, especially lately, felt wrong. It was going against so many of her instincts as a doctor, as a mental health professional, and as a human being who interacts with other human beings. That is, Martha could not escape the feeling that she should be finding out more about her patient than just what has happened to him, and his predecessors, since he came to the clinic. She was a psychiatrist, a medical doctor, yes. But she was also a psychologist, and firmly believed that childhood and early family life as a formative experience is inextricably laced within our psyche, and is the chief reason for why we behave the way we do. She understood the unique lot of the BBC, especially the Tardis Ward, since they had this interesting phenomenon of 'The Doctor' whose memories and consciousness seemed to invade their 'star' patient with smatterings of things brought about by external stimuli. But calling him by a number, it felt very backward.

But this was the way things had always been done. It was the _status quo_.

In addition, she reminded herself, the patients never lasted very long – they tended to die after a few years, and no-one had bothered to find out about that either. She chuckled to herself thinking of it; one school of thought said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result. So who was the crazy one, exactly; the patient, or the doctor?

Still, even if she never said it out loud, she now acknowledged within herself that she was growing more than just a little attached to the patient, and she didn't want to think of leaving. And she wasn't sure what would happen if she broke that particular protocol, if the patient's life wasn't in immediate danger. Would she be dismissed? She couldn't talk to Dr. Smith about it. The older doctor was hyper-aware of Martha's feelings, and would assume straight away that Martha's thoughts were the result of more than just a curiosity, or a psychiatrists' inkling. Truth was, Martha felt that certain information was needed in order to help the patient, but Sarah Jane would never believe that.

So, Martha distracted herself with more Tardis history. She was now up to the early 1980's. The Albanian, Norwegian and Australian Tardis doctors stayed on, doing their hand-written narratives, for a year or two after the Fifth Patient settled into the Ward. They still stirred up much dissent and unrest, but from what Martha could tell, the Fifth Patient was more mild-mannered and retiring than any other Tardis patient. It seemed to her that some of this patient's delusions would get derailed by the disagreements happening between the doctors, as the Fifth Patient did not have the forceful 'Doctor' personality that the others seemed to have. This may have been due to the fact that he was also younger than any of the others. The estimations of his age upon entering ranged, among the doctors, from 26 to 32, whereas all the others were in their forties, at least. Something about this made the Fifth Patient more tragic to Martha – until she realised that her own patient didn't seem to be a great deal older than that, either.

By 1982, both Alzarian and Traken had left, and only Dr. Jovanka remained. Upon being released from her two colleagues, she began doing recorded narratives, and Jovanka felt that the Doctor's personality began to emerge a bit more through the young patient, when not faced with the prevalent bickering in his presence. She did not seem willing to take much of the blame for said bickering, but Martha liked her anyway. She listened to the sprightly nasal voice, coupled with a subtle Australian accent that grew thicker the more excited and emotional she became, for an hour or two. Dr. Jovanka was a good storyteller, and her accent provided something interesting to listen to, other than her non-clinical language, and tales of time and space that were getting to be old hat by now for Martha. The Fifth Patient took her through similar stories to all the others; time travel, Daleks, Al the escort, spaceships… into the winter of 1984. At this point, Dr. Jovanka seemed to decide quite suddenly that she wished to leave the Tardis.

Rather upset on the tape, Dr. Jovanka appeared to be apologising to the listener. "It's just not suited to me anymore. The delusion never changes, never gets better, and if anything, it gets worse. I thought it was a good thing that the Doctor's personality came through stronger after Alzarian and Traken left, because I could study the phenomenon of the Doctor more closely as an academic. But that was selfish of me. Pushing him that far might have actually hindered him in the long-run… he might have been young enough and shallow enough into the delusion to have been able to overcome it, but now I don't think there's much hope. And that's my fault. I don't know what to do for him anymore. It's like I've grown stale, if I ever had any clue what I was doing anyway…"

Martha could relate. She had often wondered, especially recently, how much good the Tardis actually did. To keep the patients deluded was the _status quo,_ because it was believed they couldn't be cured… but for a long while, it was thought that no dissociative disorders could be treated, and then Sybil came along.

"Dr. Peri Brown will be here as of the 23rd February," Dr. Jovanka's narrative reported. "At that point, I'm going back to Australia, to a more traditional setting. Devoting my life to one patient at a time is just too much for me. And if I'm honest, the bureaucracy here is just bloody brutal. These Daleks will be the death of me if I stay. I like my patient a lot, and I thank him for a good run… as if he'll ever hear this. Anyway, goodbye."

The tape picked up a new narrative from the following week, the 2nd of March, 1984. To Martha's surprise, Peri Brown was a woman, and an American. Unfortunately, the Fifth Patient lasted only a few weeks after her arrival. The narrative from the day the patient died was terrible to listen to. Dr. Brown blamed herself, and wept off and on as she tried to tell the story. Her speech was fraught with stutters, deep, cleansing breaths and pauses for crying.

"16 March, 1984, this is Dr. Peri Brown. It's just before midnight. The Fifth Patient in the Tardis Ward is dead. I'll be tendering my resignation in the morning.

"I know that there are specialists out there whose job it is to escort patients such as these out of the Ward, and I was warned… but I insisted. I wanted to get to know the patient better, to see if I could ever be the equal of Dr. Jovanka in his eyes... but, oh, clearly, I'm not close.

"I decided to take him out of the Ward today, though not outside the clinic. Just wanted to take a walk around the facility with him, maybe see some other patients. I had not ready any reports of how the Tardis patient interacts with others in the facility, so... Well, anyway, the patient hadn't had his medication yet, so we took a spin into the storage rooms in the back; the _caves_ as they call it here, poorly lit rooms, where they keep the drugs. He needed his pills. I thought it would be safe to take him in. And it would have been... I could have been. It really could! But… another patient got loose and pushed his way through. He went berserk and there was nothing I could do to stop him attacking us! He'd got ahead of the orderlies, and before I knew it, he'd stuck me with something! Turns out, it was an antipsychotic tranquilizer in a lethal dose. The patient was stuck as well, though the dose, for him… well, it was still clearly lethal. But it put me out right away – I passed out! The patient is – was – used to taking antipsychotics, and was able to stay conscious a little longer. His tolerance was higher.

"I was obviously unconscious for most of it, but I'm told that [pause for crying]… that when the nurses and other doctors arrived, the patient was administering Coramine to me, the common antidote to tranquilizer overdoses and poisonings. He told them he was fine, and to them, he appeared fine. He asked to be taken back to the Tardis, and when I came round, and went to see him, he was in terrible shape… he was dying. I rushed out to get more Coramine, but it had all been used to treat other patients and nurses and doctors who had been attacked by the same man who attacked us… and perhaps my patient was too far gone anyway.

"Clearly, there has been some serious negligence here today. I wish I had been awake… I could have told them… I would have made sure…"

Martha turned off the tape. She laid her head down on the wooden table in the file room, and tried to catch her breath. This was the most harrowing thing she'd heard so far. A patient dying as a result of a visit from family was pretty terrible. But a patient dying, having saved his doctor's life, is another kind of terrible altogether.

* * *

><p>When Martha opened the Tardis door, the Tenth Patient seemed to be standing just on the other side of it, and off his guard, because he fell as she she came in. She apologised and tried to help him off the floor.<p>

He buried his hands in his hair, looking frantic. "The Tardis is in the cargo hold," he said, looking around, as if to find a solution. "It's over 3,000 degress in there – there's no way we can get back in there even if she can survive!"

"She?" Martha asked, following him round the room, trying to channel his frenzy.

"The Tardis," he said. "This means we're trapped on the SS Pentallian. The engines are dead and we're forty-two minutes away from crashing in to the sun!"

_Okay, spaceship story today, _she thought, _and a morbid one._ She took a few moments to try and shake off the shock of reading about Dr. Brown's unique lot as caregiver in the Tardis, then jumped as well as she could into the next adventure with her own patient.

* * *

><p>Martha sighed heavily before clicking 'record'.<p>

"Martha Jones, 19 May, seven pm, exhausted again. My patient... I don't know. I'm still a doctor, and he's still delusional, but... I'm starting to think that the superstitious sorts who closed this place down eighteen years ago weren't completely mad. Last week, I was pretty certain that the Tardis had got into my head. Today, I'm wondering if it's the Doctor getting into my head.

She took a long pause.

"Blimey, I'm probably going to be sectioned myself by the time I'm done here. Hope to God no-one listens to these... what's the matter with me?

"Anyway, when I entered the Tardis today, I was reeling from reading about Dr. Peri Brown, the psychiatrist who came on just after Dr. Jovanka, and worked only for two weeks with the Fifth Patient. He died saving her, literally, from an accidental drug overdose. It made me not want to read any further. It makes me want to know no more about how the patients die, and how the Doctor supposedly regenerates... it's too painful. How does a patient die saving his doctor? It's not right. It's not the natural order of things. And how... how did the patient account for the Doctor dying to save his companion? We'll never, ever know. What was going on in the Doctor's mind? Was there something useful there, that we could have known, that could have helped another patient somewhere? Where does the Doctor's valiance come from? God... this is..."

She breathed hard, and sighed again.

"Anyway, as I said, it was on my mind. It was distracting, making me all agitated. My patient didn't say anything but... in the delusion, we were on a spaceship that was crashing into the sun. I volunteered to do something separate from the Doctor to help the crew, just because I was feeling despondent. The delusion eventually had me in mortal peril, perhaps just for being away from the Doctor... I went into the courtyard, to get some air, and the patient locked me out! Then he promised he'd save me...

"Later, I learned that during that time, he was seeing me in an escape pod that was being pulled toward the sun, and I was a few minutes from a horrible, fiery death. He eventually opened the door and went through what looked like something extremely painful in order to bring the pod back into the main spaceship. As a result, he became posessed by the sun, and the Doctor almost fried from the inside out..."

Martha took another pause.

"The patient didn't die to save me. The patient's vitals did not appear affected - blood sugar samples from before and after were steady, as was his blood pressure. But within his mind, the Doctor put his life on the line to keep me safe. _The Doctor_ could have died, and I have yet to read a story in which the Doctor dies without the Patient dying as well.

"This, in and of itself, is not disturbing. Well, it is, but... oh, but I'm starting to wonder if I really need to stimulate his mind anymore, or is just my presence doing that? How did he know what was on my mind today? How could he have tapped into that image of the Fifth Patient, the Fifth Doctor, dying for Peri?

"Maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe the disturbing nature of the story is causing me to overreact. Maybe I'm letting the lore of this place get to me in general... maybe... I don't know. Maybe I'm posessed too. Maybe it's lack of sleep. But I'm starting to believe that life with the Doctor contains no coincidences."

She shut off the recording and saved it.

The story of Peri Brown and the Fifth Patient was under her skin. The idea that the Tenth Patient had a life and a family before going insane was under her skin. The idea that the patients never got cured and no-one really tried that hard to cure them was under her skin.

And of course, the patient himself, his eyes, his lips, the way he moved... all of that was under her skin, too.

She wondered what more could happen. But she wasn't naïve enough to believe that it couldn't get any worse.


	9. Chapter 9

NINE

Martha almost felt she'd have to have a drink before delving back into the narratives. Peri Brown's story had shaken her so much, and she knew that it would be followed by her resignation, and a sad farewell. She dreaded hearing about it.

But, some of the other doctors vouched for her, at least for now, and surprisingly, the inquiry did not reveal any actual wrongdoing on her part, as there is no rule against taking the patient away from the Ward. So she decided to stay until a replacement could be found.

The Sixth Patient survived only two years in the Tardis, and lived most of that time, as it turned out, under Dr. Brown's care. The first year was punctuated by an attempt on Dr. Brown's life by the patient – the first and only in the Tardis' history. The Doctor had always been, and has been since, a benevolent entity, almost never using violence nor undue intimidation to get what he wanted. This is why the staff of the BBC never had any compunction about allowing mostly females to care for the Tardis patient, and to spend so much unsurveilled time alone with him. However, the Sixth Patient proved to have a volatile personality, though he had no history of particularly violent behaviour, and never showed any more.

Dr. Brown had already lined up a replacement at that time, but when this occurred, the replacement withdrew herself, in understandable apprehension. Since the Sixth Patient seemed properly penitent, some of the staff suggested that it might actually be beneficial to this patient to remain under the care of Dr. Brown. Her presence, they felt, might keep him from lashing out again, might help him to explore some of his own and the Doctor's issues, and the results of her continued influence on his life could be studied. And so, Peri Brown was convinced to stay even longer.

The Sixth Patient's second year was characterised by a brutal run-in with his family, in which they took the BBC to court to ask restitution for some of their more unorthodox practises, in spite of the facility's charter, and in spite of the patient's violent incident. They actually put the patient on the stand to give evidence. He was, of course, useless to that effect, given that his perception of the world had little to do with objective reality.

On the up-side, the debacle did not traumatise him unduly.

On the down-side, Dr. Brown was removed from her post as part of the settlement. The family was disturbed by the circumstances surrounding the Fifth Patient's death, and asked for her resignation and a reduced monetary sum. She left with a measure of dignity and acceptance of her lot, and Martha really felt for her.

In her final narrative, Peri Brown said, "It's hard not to feel that my tenure here has been doomed from day one. Things keep happening that make me want to leave, or feel that I should leave, or make other people think I should leave... I guess this time, I'll heed that advice. The fates win – I'm done. I can't fight this anymore. I really care a great deal about my patient, but the Tardis... well, they say it's cursed. Maybe they're right."

She was replaced by Dr. Melanie Bush in the fall of 1986, the first British doctor they'd had in five and a half years. Much like the situation of her predecessor, the patient died a disturbingly short time after she arrived – within three weeks. His cause of death was sort of a mystery – he seemed to die in his sleep. Dr. Bush was cleared of any malpractice, and was much more philosophical about this demise – she did not attempt to blame herself, as Dr. Brown had.

For the first time ever, while Martha was in the file room learning all she could about the Doctor, a knock came.

"Er, come in," she said, taken aback.

A woman stuck her head in. She was one of the nurses who worked in the BBC, and she'd been helping Martha to care for her patient off and on for a few weeks. Mostly, she was on the night shift, and she and Martha would only cross paths in the morning.

"Good morning, Joan. What can I do for you?" asked Martha.

"Sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to give you my report personally," Joan said. She was a very serious woman, one who did not hold with a lot of nonsense. Martha, in turn, took her seriously. Reports were usually given via a network database to which all staff had different levels of access, so that doctors could keep in touch with all of the nurses and orderlies on his or her rotation. But if Joan Redfern said she felt there was a reason to do things a bit out-of-the-ordinary, Martha believed there was a good reason.

Joan came in and shut the door. "I know this is a bit strange for me to do this, but I really think something's wrong, Dr. Jones. He's not himself today."

"What do you mean, he's not himself? He's delusional; he's never himself."

"Well then, maybe he is himself. Which is why it's strange..." Joan trailed off, seeing Martha's confused reaction and realising that she wasn't making much sense. "I really think you should come talk to him."

Martha put away the files she'd pulled and went to the Tardis. She asked Joan to stick around, instead of going home, just in case she'd be needed. The nurse readily agreed.

"Doctor?" she said tentatively, peeking round the door.

"Martha," he said. He was up walking around, reading a newspaper. He did not smile at her, like he usually did. He was wearing his blue bathrobe. It was the first time she'd seen him in anything other than a pinstriped suit since her first day, when they went to the moon together.

"Oh, you're not dressed, would you like me to come back?"

"No, no, it's all right, come on in," he said. "And why are you calling me Doctor?"

"Pardon?"

* * *

><p>It was the same conference room where Martha had gone nose-to-nose with the Daleks.<p>

Martha, Joan and Sarah Jane sat on one side of the table. Three additional doctors sat on the other side. They were the Psychiatric Directors of the BBC. They were looking at the three women with great interest, and also befuddlement.

"No, you're misunderstanding me. It's like he's someone entirely new," Martha told them. "If I didn't know better I'd say he'd shed his delusion. He seems absolutely lucid."

"What's your evidence?" one very starchy man in glasses asked her.

She pulled out some notes she had taken. "Well, aside from demeanour, he told me his actual name, or at least _an _actual name. He says he's John Smith, and he's a history teacher. He discussed the Doctor as though he were a vague memory, as though he recognised that the Doctor, the concept of the Doctor, is a delusion. He's made drawings... different faces..."

"One of them seems to be called _Rose,_" Joan chimed in.

"And I can confirm that the drawing looks unmistakably like Dr. Tyler," Sarah Jane added.

"And he's treating _even her_ like part of the delusion," Martha told them. "Which, is very _very_ unusual for him."

The three doctors made some notes, and grumbled in agreement. Even they knew the story of Rose Tyler.

Martha cleared her throat. "Also interesting, the Doctor has never shown any talent for drawing before. John Smith, whoever he is, does have this talent," she went on. "And, his personal story is now painfully realistic. He has a name and a job, and isn't holding with anything we're saying to him about time travel or aliens... it's not getting through. He's dismissing all of it."

Two of the big-wig doctors looked at each other. One of them shrugged. "It is fairly common for a delusional patient not to remember or tolerate much of the delusion, once the mind has repaired itself. Like a purge."

"It's also fairly common for a patient not to remember a delusion once they've switched to another delusion," Sarah Jane pointed out. "Let's not jump to conclusions by assuming he's lucid."

"But with all due respect, doctors, it's _not_ fairly common for a Tardis patient to claim to be anyone other than the Doctor," Martha said emphatically.

"That's very true," Sarah Jane conceded.

"Something has changed, gentlemen," Martha announced with finality. "The question is what."

"You're right," one of the gentlemen said. "It's time to bring in the big guns."

"Big guns?" Martha asked.

"There is a team of specialists whom we have called on in the past," he explained. "Not for the Ward 40 patients, but for others. They are a group who, among other things, help patients re-assimilate once they've been released from the facility. But they can find out whether he's lucid or whether he's shifted delusions, and why."

"Wait a minute," Martha argued. "I'm his doctor. I will find that out."

"Dr. Jones, don't get us wrong. We recognise that you are qualified as a researcher and documenter and therapist," one of them said. "But these people have digital brainwave sensors, electrode conductors, equipment that will..."

"I'm a trained psychiatrist, and a bloody good one," she protested. "I am the Chief Psychiatrist in Ward 40, and the patient there is under my care, legally. I do not authorise..."

"We are the Psychiatric Directors of the entire facility, Dr. Jones. We do not require your authorisation."

"This is bollocks!" Martha spat, getting to her feet. "I won't have anyone poking and prodding at him, or _shocking _him! It's wrong! If you're going to do that, then what the hell is the point of having me here?"

"Martha, sit down," Sarah Jane tried. Martha became instantly aware of Sarah Jane, and the wisdom that she had been ignoring. She reluctantly sat down, taking the experienced doctor's advice. Besides, she wanted Sarah Jane on her side if she was going to war with these guys.

Just then, an orderly stuck his head into the room. Another odd interruption. It was Tim Latimer, one of the orderlies who was on rotation with the Tenth Patient this month.

"Yes, Tim, what is it?" Martha asked more curtly than she normally would have.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said. "Nurse Redfern, the patient is asking for you."

"What's going on?" Martha wanted to know.

"Dunno," said Tim. "He just asked for _her._"

"What?" asked Martha, getting to her feet.

Joan left the room with a shrug, and Martha sat back down, trying to remain professional, and not feel as though her patient was being pulled out from underneath her, like a rug.

* * *

><p>"This is Dr. Martha Jones, 26 May, 2007, the time is fourteen thirty-six. Well, ladies and gentlemen, the Doctor has left the building.<p>

"Well, not quite literally. But my patient... well, everything has run amok today. My patient, if he is still my patient, no longer claims to be the Doctor, a traveller in time and space. He is now John Smith, and he's a teacher. I'd like to say, I have thus far been omitting from my narratives my desire to find out more about the patient's background because... well, because it's such a taboo here. But there it is – it's been bothering me not to know his name or anything about his previous life. It rails against my training as a psychiatrist, to find out what makes a person tick. But, could it be... I mean, dare I hope that he's actually John Smith, and that he was a schoolteacher before he went insane?

"And if so, what the hell just happened? I mean, it's also been bothering me that no progress seems to get made here. Dr. Jovanka's records show that she was agitated, and compelled to leave the facility for the same reason. We study and document and go along with the delusion, but we never try to pull him out of it. What if he's pulled himself out of it? If he's really John Smith, then this could mean... oh, it could mean volumes for the BBC, and for me. I mean, not my career, but for my... my mind! My understanding of my vocation! If I could work out how he was cured, and what, if anything triggered it... if he could help me solve..."

She stopped and took a breath. She realised she was getting a bit ahead of herself. She was getting emotional, and she was wary of that; she was always afraid that something would slip out that she didn't want, if she got too excited on her recordings. And there was a lot on her mind right now that _should not_ be said.

"Well, perhaps I'm putting the cart before the horse, just a tad. His behaviour... let's talk about that. He seems to know me, but he does not treat me as a companion anymore. He is formal with me, though he stops short of calling me Dr. Jones..."

She felt a slam of cold come through her, thinking of how he'd looked at her this morning, as though she were a caregiver, not his friend. She hadn't realised until then just how much she relied on that rapport, and how much she loved that feeling of camaraderie with him. And now, if he was lucid, life would change. If his delusion had switched, life would change. If the team of specialists came in with their instruments and shut her out of his care, life would change. Thinking about it flattened her spirits, even though hope that something had cracked the patient's surface had, just a few minutes before, inflated her so hugely.

She gulped. She didn't want to think about what she had to say next. She hadn't been talking about her feelings for the patient, and clearly, part of her excitement and apprehension today was thinking that this man she adored was _real_, at last. She shivered thinking she might get to know the real him, the man behind the Tenth Doctor! But she _had_ to document the dynamic with Joan Redfern. It was an integral part of the strangeness pervading this situation, no matter how much it destroyed her to watch him look at the nurse with such affection.

She cleared her throat.

"The patient, it should be noted, seems overly... well, _extremely_ fond of Nurse Joan Redfern, who has been at the BBC for a number of years, and over the last several weeks has worked on a rotation with the Tenth Patient, usually during the night shift. John Smith has been asking for her help with things, where as the Doctor would have asked for me."

She tried desperately to keep the bitterness out of her voice, but she couldn't help making the distinction between John Smith, who liked Nurse Joan, and the Doctor, who thought of Martha as his best friend. Once again, she stopped to martial her emotions before starting to talk once more.

"He has not asked to go home, nor has he asked why he is here. He's accepted his lot with surprising grace, and though he spurns the idea of the Doctor, he doesn't look down on the delusional side of himself. I'd love to study this phenomenon more. In any case, Nurse Redfern reports that he asked to leave only the Tardis tonight, perhaps to join some of the other patients at dinner, and would like her by his side. She said she would oblige, with my consent. I gave it to her, as I could think..."

She almost said, she could think of no good reason to deny them. But she felt it would give her away.

"I attempted to interact with the patient today after meeting with the directors, and he basically told me to go jump in a lake, in favour of Nurse Redfern's company. Therefore, I will not be present – I will rely on Nurse Redfern to document his behaviour and keep him... well, keep him close, I guess. He doesn't want me there, so... I've decided to treat him as lucid unless and until I find out otherwise, and therefore, I'll respect John's wishes. He knows what he wants, I suppose..."

She gulped, knowing she'd have to end this narrative soon, before she started to cry.

"The Psychiatric Directors have not said when the so-called 'team of specialists' will join us here. I suppose it will be in the next day or two. I'll pick this up tomorrow."

* * *

><p>The phone rang in the middle of the night.<p>

"Hello?" Martha asked, groggily.

"Martha," Joan's voice came through desperately. It caused Martha to sit up and take notice. Ultra-serious Joan Redfern _never_ called any of the doctors by their first names, even when they asked her to, as Martha had a few times. "I'm sorry to wake you, but you are _not_ going to like what I have to tell you, and I thought you should know as soon as possible, so that you could, you know, get a jump on the situation, that is..."

"Whoa, whoa, Joan," Martha said, stopping the tirade. "Slow down. Take a deep breath. What's going on?"

Joan inhaled and exhaled audibly, then spoke again. "Tonight at dinner, there were some people there I had never seen before. They weren't patients, they weren't staff, they didn't have visitor badges. I checked the computer to see if we had anyone new admitted – nothing. But they were _eyeing_ our patient."

"What do you mean eyeing him?"

"Like, sitting in the corners of the room, watching him. Making notes."

"What? Who were they?"

"Well, they wouldn't say directly."

"Can you describe them?"

"Well, there were four. A young woman, a blonde. Then there was another woman, maybe forty, a bit heavy. Two men, one was fifty-ish, barrel-chested and seemed t be Irish, and the other was about your age, dark hair, and an incredibly unpleasant personality."

"Hm. And they wouldn't say what they wanted?"

"No, Dr. Jones," she answered. "But I think we both know who they are. I think you need to get in very, very early and do some damage control. Either that, or say goodbye to your patient as you know him."

"Oh my God," Martha heaved. "Those bastards. How can they do this? I mean, seriously, what is the point of bothering to hire a Chief Psychiatrist if they're just going to swoop in and let so-called specialists do the work when something changes? Isn't this what I'm here for?"

"I know. I'm sorry."

"And why would they do it so sneakily?"

"Maybe because they know they're wrong?" Joan offered.

"Joan," Martha said, very low, hating herself even for having the thought. "Do you think Dr. Smith perhaps advised them to do this?"

"Excuse me?"

"Dr. Smith. Sarah Jane. Do you think she'd have told them not to trust me?"

"Why on Earth would she do that?"

"I don't know, I just..." Martha sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... I'm just paranoid. Forget I said it."

"Dr. Jones, is everything all right? I mean, other than the obvious? Is there some bad blood with you and Dr. Smith?"

"No," Martha assured her. "And if there is, it's my own damn fault, okay? Listen, Joan, where is he now?"

"The patient? John? Whoever he is now..."

"Yes, the patient."

"Erm, well, he's asleep, I assume, in another ward tonight. He didn't want to go back to the Tardis, so they put him in an unused private room in a different part of the hospital, just temporarily."

"Tell me he's under lock and key," Martha whined.

"Oh yes," Joan answered. "Tim is watching over him. He seemed comfortable with that."

"And where are you?" asked Martha.

"I'm at home," Joan answered.

"Okay, good," Martha told her. "Get a bit of sleep. We have to get back there before those specialists get to him. I don't care what _facility leadership_ says. I'm not letting them take my patient away from me. Can you be there at six?"

Joan sighed. "Yes, I can."

"I promise, I won't keep you any longer than I have to, but Joan, I'm going to need your support. John Smith trusts you for some reason, and... well, the Doctor would listen to me, but he's not around. You may be the only one on my side."

"I'll be there," Joan assured her.

Martha breathed out rather harshly. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

The two women hung up. Martha dialled another number, because there was something she just had to know.

"Sarah Jane," Martha said when the other doctor picked up her end of the line. "It's Martha. Sorry to wake you."

"Is everything okay? Is the patient..."

"His status hasn't changed. It's your status I need to know about."

"Pardon?" asked Sarah Jane.

"I need to know if you're on my side, or on the side of the Powers that Be. I need to know if I can count on you."

There was a long silence, and Martha understood that Sarah Jane was trying to choose her words wisely.

"I had noticed that he is rather fond of Nurse Redfern," Sarah Jane said softly.

"Yes."

"How does that make you feel, Martha?"

Martha could feel anger rising. She wasn't a child, or a mental patient. "Look, you're a bloody psychiatrist," she spat. "So you know the answer to that. But so am I, so you can spare me the therapist rubbish, and tell me the truth. Are you going to be working with me or against me?"

"I won't be doing either, Martha," Sarah Jane told her. "I can't get involved in this, and the directors understand. I'll be taking a break from the BBC for a while. Maybe forever."

Martha was crushed. She wasn't surprised, but she was disappointed. She had so been hoping to hear Sarah Jane say she'd go to bat for Martha, even though Martha wasn't sure that she even should.

"Fine," said Martha. "It was nice working with you, good night."

"Understand, Martha," Sarah Jane said, knowing Martha wasn't ready to cut the line yet, and knowing she'd be able to get her back. "I think that what they're doing, how they're handling this situation is monstrous. Technically, it's legal, but it's unethical and it's in completely bad faith. If I were you, I'd be bloody furious."

"Thank you."

"But I can't help but feel that you're overreacting, and I'm watching you, seeing that you are going to throw yourself to the lions, all because of your feelings for the patient. I tried to warn you, but... I understand how much good that does, which is nil, but it didn't stop me from wanting to help you. But Martha, I have been down that road before myself, and I went down that road with Rose Tyler, and if there's anything I've learned, it's that there is nothing I can do about it. They say the Tardis is cursed – maybe it is. The Doctor is infernally charming, and we are all doomed to be enthralled. I just don't think there is any more I can do for you."

Martha's insides were tied in knots now. "Have you told the directors why you're withdrawing? Do they know how I... how I feel?"

"I didn't tell them. Not in so many words," Sarah Jane said softly. "But they're psychiatrists too, remember? They know why I'm there. They know in what capacity I was asked to act as advisor to Rose Tyler, and they know what I think about the situation as a whole. So don't plunder in assuming they're idiots."

"Blimey, what a mess."

"Martha, I understand. You can't help how you feel, and neither can I. We're psychiatrists – we're meant to find out about people and help them work through their problems, but we can't reprogram them, and that's especially true of ourselves. So I'm not judging you, really."

"Okay. I get it."

"But can I give you some advice before you go?"

"Yeah, sure."

"As long as John Smith and Joan Redfern are going to be thick as thieves, you're going to be miserable, and you're going to be inclined to do and say things you'll regret. Just keep the welfare of your patient in mind, and do not take it out on Joan. All right? She is your friend, and she's one of the best nurses the BBC has got."

"All right," Martha said. "Thank you, Sarah Jane, you've been a big help to me."

"Good luck, Martha."

Martha put down the phone and burst into tears.


	10. Chapter 10

**As you may notice, there's A LOT going on here. Lots of seeds planted... please don't be confused. :-D**

* * *

><p><span>TEN<span>

At six o'clock in the morning, Martha Jones and Joan Redfern met in front of the BBC facility.

"Why are you waiting out here?" Martha asked as she arrived.

"Didn't want to go in without you," she said. She gave Martha an ominous look and pointed to two vans in the car park that Martha had not noticed before.

"Shit!" Martha hissed. "They're here already?"

"They were here last night, remember?"

"Yeah but... it's six a.m.!"

"Yep. My guess is that they haven't left all night."

Martha groaned, and said, "All right, let's just do this."

They each swiped their cards into the facility, and there was a man, matching the description that Joan had given her the morning before. Fiftysomething, rotund, Irish.

"Good morning," he said boisterously. "Nurse Redfern, nice to see you again. And, Martha Jones, I presume?"

"Yes," Martha said curtly, shaking his hand with an intentionally fake smile. "I hear that you're here to horn in on the work I've done with my patient. How lovely."

Although, as soon as she spoke, she could hear Sarah Jane's voice in her head telling her to stand down. She felt like Luke Skywalker with Obiwan giving ghostly advice.

"Well, it's all about perception, Dr. Jones," he said. "I'm Dr. Clark, but you can call me Harry. I'm with the Rodina-Krev Institute, we specialise in…"

"I know who you are, and I know what you do. Can we please just skip the pleasantries?"

"Martha - may I call you Martha? I know what you're thinking," he said, shaking an infuriating index finger at her. "But we're not here to undermine you. We are concerned with mental health, just as you are, and we want what's best for all patients, just as you do."

"Dr. Clark, with all due respect, if you really believed that we were on the same page, you wouldn't have made it a point to come here in the middle of the night and operate when you know I'm not about. Please don't insult my intelligence."

He crossed his arms and looked down his nose at her. "Touché," he said. "You want to play it that way, fine. I'm sorry to report, Dr. Jones, that your patient is not John Smith."

"He's reverted to the Doctor delusion?"

"That's not what I mean," he said. "I mean that we've ascertained that he is not lucid. Your patient was not John Smith before he became the Doctor. He was not a history teacher either."

"You know who he is?"

"Yes," Dr. Clark answered. "We've been made privy to all his personal files. Name, occupation, family life… his ex-wife. All of it." He said this with a measure of smugness which let Martha know that he had no intention of sharing any of this information with her, nor allowing her into the confidential file room. It was not strictly "against the rules" at the BBC to know all that about a patient, but the way things were going, she knew without asking that the directors had instructed the folks from Rodina-Krev to keep her in the dark, and out of the private files.

But she was determined not to show how angry this made her. "All right. What's our next step?"

"Well, you don't have a next step. The directors here have suggested that since he is exhibiting a phenomenon that has never been seen before in a Tardis patient, that he should be put into our care," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"He should be examined with our specialised instruments…"

"And taken away from the BBC on a permanent basis?"

"Dr. Jones, no patient in Ward 40 has ever changed his delusion," Dr. Clark told her, condescendingly. "Just the fact that the patients share one another's memories is study enough, in and of itself, but the fact that the game has changed so suddenly, and without warning... well, I'm sure you understand how momentous this is."

She wanted so badly to respond with something scathingly sarcastic, but she remained calm, as Sarah Jane would want her to.

"I do understand that, oddly enough. What I do not understand is why I am being shut out of the research."

"That, Dr. Jones, is something to take up with your bosses, not with me," Dr. Clark said, smugly taking the onus off himself.

Joan Redfern chimed in at that point. "Dr. Clark, on a semi-personal note, might I suggest that perhaps you're not being as collegial as you possibly could? After all, you did point out yourself just a few minutes ago that you and Dr. Jones and I are all mental health professionals, and we only want what's best for the patient. Perhaps a bit of latitude on your part would help Dr. Jones be a little less brittle."

_Read: quit being such a wanker,_ Martha thought.

"No disrespect, but I don't really care whether Dr. Jones brittle or not," the Irishman told her. "Our patient and I, along with my colleagues, will be out of here tonight, and then we'll never see each other again. She can be brittle 'til her bones break."

Martha couldn't help but smile. Well, she could, but the alternative was to punch him in the face. "I believe that you're one of the most unprofessional professionals I've ever met."

He chuckled, walking away. "Do your worst, Dr. Jones. As long as the John Smith persona remains, then he is our specimen. He doesn't belong in the Tardis – he belongs with us."

As Dr. Clark disappeared up a side stairwell, Martha muttered, "He's not your bloody _specimen_, he's a human being, you prat."

She and Joan looked at each other. They knew what they had to do.

* * *

><p>As they moved through the facility, Martha reminded herself over and over and over again that this was <em>not<em> a question of simply wanting to stay at the patient's side. She had to slap herself and re-examine again and again her feelings and her motivations.

_What's best for the patient? What's best for the BBC? And lastly, what's best for me? As a doctor, not as a woman?_

But she kept coming back to the same answer. The best place for the patient was at the BBC, and the BBC had nothing to lose one way or the other. And, the best thing for her as a doctor was continuing to care for him. Even if the delusion had changed, she knew it was not in his best interest to uproot him straight away and stick him in another facility. For one thing, the Doctor could return at any moment, and they would lose their so-called specimen. The Rodina-Krev did not specialise in straightforward "pleateaued" delusional cases, as she well knew. They would eventually tire of him, and dump him back here anyway, if that happened.

For another thing, Martha had spent two months with the patient, and recognized all of his tendencies as the historical Doctor figure, as well as the patient's mannerisms as an individual. Those should be examined in tandem with the John Smith persona, an endeavour which would only be effective carried out by someone who had known the patient as the Tenth Doctor, and not just on paper.

And for yet another thing, what she knew of the Rodina-Krev Institute had to do with metal machines, electroshock treatments, patients hooked to monitors and kept intentionally uncomfortable as an experimental stimulus. Yes, the Tardis constituted an experimental wing of a bigger mental health facility, but she more or less believed in the Ward 40 mission statement, or at least its relatively gentle approach. The Rodina-Krev was like psychotherapy on the couch of communist Russia.

He was still her patient, and it was still her job to protect him.

"Where did they put him last night?" Martha asked Joan.

"I'll show you."

"Where are his drawings?"

"I have them at the nurses' station. We can get them on the way."

Joan led her down a few corridors she had never seen before, and stopped to pick up the leather book that held the sketches, and some added stories of the Doctor. Most of the stories, at first glance, were familiar to Martha. John Smith apparently shared some of the inherited memory of the Doctor, but Martha could see, upon a rudimentary peek at his own narrative, that the memories were vague.

They arrived at a door where an orderly sat outside reading a magazine. He said hello to Nurse Redfern as they let themselves into the room where the Tenth Patient, also known as John Smith, sat. He was wearing a grey tweed suit, which was quite jarring to Martha. She didn't like it. The suit wasn't him – it wasn't the Doctor.

It was a room decorated in blue – Martha's least favourite colour. There was a cot, a table in the middle with flowers and evidence that someone had had tea there recently.

"John?" Nurse Redfern prodded tentatively.

"I must go to them," he said. "Before anyone else dies."

Joan and Martha looked at each other.

"You can't," Joan told him. "John, I think we're going to need the Doctor back. Otherwise, it's all over for you here. And it's all over for Martha. And me too." That last part was a little white lie, but Joan knew where Mr. Smith's proclivities lay.

He reacted with surprise to this revelation. Clearly, he was not ready to bring the Doctor back. He turned looked at Martha harshly. "You're the Doctor's _companion_, can't you help? Why does he need you?"

"Because he's not well," she told him, gently.

"And that's what you want me to become?" he asked her. He looked as though he were near tears.

She wanted to say _You're not well either, Mr. Smith. It's a question of being in the presence of people who care about you, and people who just want to poke you with things. Please choose us. Choose me..._

But once again, in a tense moment, a knock came at the door. All three of them seemed puzzled.

Joan asked, "What if it's them?"

"The blunderbuss brigade? I don't think they'd knock," Martha reasoned, and she opened the door.

It was Tim Latimer, the orderly. He came into the room and approached the patient.

"I brought you this," he said, handing him a grey, ordinary-looking fob watch.

Martha looked at him with puzzlement. "What are you doing?" she whispered.

Tim looked at her in a way that made her back down straight away. She didn't know why – he seemed to know something more than she did, and suddenly, the innocuous little orderly was somewhat creepy.

Martha looked at her patient and said, "Take it."

"I won't."

Joan encouraged him as well.

"It _wants_ to be held," Tim said to the patient.

"Why now?" asked the patient.

"Because it was waiting. And because I was so scared of the Doctor."

Again, Martha and Joan looked at each other. They were out of the loop on this one, though both of the men seemed to know what this all meant.

"Why?"

"Because I've seen him," Tim said evenly. He walked toward the patient, never losing eye contact. "He's like fire and ice and rage. He's like the night in a storm, and the heart of the sun."

"Stop it," the patient spat.

"He's ancient forever. He burns at the centre of time, and he can see the turn of the universe."

"Stop it, I said. Stop it."

"And he's wonderful," said Tim.

There was a long pause, in which the patient and the orderly stared at one another. Joan reached for the journal, and Martha just watched to see what would happen.

"I've got this," the nurse told the patient. "The journal."

"Those are just stories," he snapped at her. It was the first time he'd spoken to her in anything other than a gentle tone.

"Now, we know that's not true," she told him.

"What's going on?" Martha whispered to Tim.

"We talked last night," he told her as the patient turned his attention to Joan. "The Doctor is in the watch."

"What?"

"The consciousness of the Time Lord. It's waiting in the watch."

"He told you that?"

"No, I just knew it."

She was confused. She searched for words. "You told _him_?"

"No, he knew it too." Tim turned and made eye-contact with Martha again, and again, the intensity in his gaze made her shiver. Tim Latimer was little more than a kid, but there was something serious going on in there.

* * *

><p>"This is Dr. Martha Jones, 27 May, 2007. The time is twelve eighteen. I'm here with Nurse Joan Redfern and Orderly Timothy Latimer. They will be narrating along with me."<p>

Martha looked across her desk at Tim, who was sitting in a chair looking beatific. She hadn't been able to get any sort of sensible answer out of him. The idea that the Time Lord consciousness was in the watch was a brilliant one – it had worked. It had succeeded in bringing the Doctor back, and sending the Rodina-Krev folks away.

But Tim wouldn't say where the idea came from. All he would tell them is that he'd known it, and John Smith had known it, and neither of them needed to be told. He refused to say where his little speech had come from, or even acknowledge that it had been a speech. He acted like it had come from the deeper reaches of his soul, and that he had some kind of connection to the entity known as the Doctor.

Martha spoke on the tape. "To update from yesterday's status, the patient was not lucid, and it is now unclear whether the delusion actually had changed. It appears to me in retrospect that the delusion had only gone deeper, that John Smith is an aspect of the Doctor's personality, which expressed itself for some reason yesterday... it does not change the need to research a trigger."

"It's like death," Tim said out loud. He stared at the wall, not seeming to be aware that there was anyone in the room, or even that he had spoken. Martha and Joan looked at him, paused, and then Martha continued to talk.

"However, the Doctor persona has now fully returned, though he _does _remember the John Smith experience. And although it is still not clear what caused the shift in his state of mind, it has been deemed that the patient should stay here at the BBC, rather than transfer to the Rodina-Krev Institute. We shall do our own studies as to the brain chemistry involved, and perhaps make some changes to the psychopharmacology. The Doctor belongs in the Tardis..."

"Yes, like resurrection," Tim said, in the same manner.

Martha felt derailed. She felt that she could not tell the simple, straightforward story of the Doctor and John Smith now, until she worked out whatever the hell was going on with this Latimer character.

It was Joan who began to speak. "Now, Mr. Latimer, no-one is judging you nor blaming you. But you need to tell us more. You seem to know about the Doctor," she said. "How is that?"

He looked at her blankly, and did not answer for a long while. "The Doctor said I was born with a low-level telepathic field that allows me to filter in the consciousness of the Time Lord. I've seen him, and I've seen myself. The universe is so small. We are so small, humanity. We occupy but one layer of existence, and only the bottom layer of this layer. The Time Lord... his consciousness, his being... it pervades, it assimilates..."

They had all heard the patient say something about a telepathic field to him, in the voice of the Doctor, as he blipped in and out of John Smith's mind. But Tim's earnestness was troubling. Martha and Joan, once again, made meaningful eye contact. Muttering, Martha managed to say, "Nurse Redfern, I think some paperwork is in order."

Joan nodded and left the room.

"For the tape, Nurse Joan Redfern has left the room," Martha said. "Now, Mr. Latimer, you said you had some conversations with the patient last night."

"The Doctor."

"Okay, if you like. You spoke with the Doctor."

"Yes. And I saw him."

"So you've said. But you need to tell me what that means."

"He's ancient and forever, and he burns at the centre of time, and he can see the turn of the universe."

"Yeah, I got that…" Martha sighed. Again with the cryptic. Clearly, Tim wasn't going to talk like a normal person now, so she conceded, "Okay, go on."

"The Doctor is a collision of Time Lord and human. And he is small. The Tenth Doctor is small, tiny. Every Doctor is tiny. The Doctor as a being, he's... bigger," Tim sighed and looked up at Martha with a little smile. "The individual Doctor, the Tenth, the Fourth, the Eighth... he's like a metaphor."

"The Doctor is a metaphor?"

_Okay, maybe that makes a kind of sense. I might be able to get my mind around this, _she thought.

"Yes. Only not a metaphor. More like a microcosm," Tim corrected.

"A microcosm?" she asked, feeling discouraged again.

"When the Doctor returned to us today, something died," Tim said, continuing in that still, beatific tone. "And it's happened time and again. Nine times. Ten Doctors, nine times. But John Smith... he's... he's tiny too. Even tinier, in fact. He died. The patient will die. The Time Lord will live. The Doctor will live. This is our layer of existence, not his."

"All right," Martha said, sighing. "Tim, would you mind going out to the lobby to help Nurse Redfern with her paperwork?"

Tim smiled. "It's all right, Dr. Jones. I understand why you feel you need to hold me in the clinic for evaluation. I'll stay as long as you like. I want to help the patient to die."

Martha didn't bother to ask him to explain or repeat. She just thanked him, and let him leave.

"For the tape, Timothy Latimer has left the room. We'll be putting the Tardis under surveillance. And hey, what the hell? Let's put Tim under surveillance too, just to be safe."

_And let's put Martha on a beach in Mallorca, yeah? Blimey, I need a break._

* * *

><p>She wandered back into the patient's chamber, the good old Tardis, as she now thought of it.<p>

"Hey, Martha," he said. "Thanks for looking after me."

"Anytime," she told him. And she meant it. It was her job, and it was a joy. He gave her a big hug that made the whole damned day worthwhile.

When he let go of her, she said, "Listen, I'm going to be gone for a bit."

"Are you going to the moon?" he asked. She looked for a smile, but it wasn' t there. Something in the Doctor's consciousness was seriously asking if she was going to take her holiday on the moon. It didn't sound like an entirely bad idea…

"No, just… I don't know," she told him. "Away. But maybe…"

"What?"

"Maybe you can come with me," she suggested. In reality, she had no intention of bringing him with her. She was taking this holiday specifically to get away from him, from her feelings, from the politics here.

"The moon landing was in 1969," he said.

"That's true. We could go there, if you're hoping for more moon action," she continued, hoping he'd develop a delusion and have it without her, never realising she was gone.

"We'll get stuck there…"

She didn't hear him. "The truth is, Doctor," she said, getting up and walking around a bit. "I'm nervous to go. I'm afraid that if I go, they'll take you away from me."

She looked at him to see a reaction, but he was not reacting. He was looking at her blankly. It was one of those times when she wondered if he even understood her.

"It's like… the powers that be, they think these people are angels, like the kind that come to lift you out of all this, and put you in a better place. But they're not angels – they only seem like it. They're really… they're just bad. They just jostle you, move you about, and then leave you to rot. And I'm afraid that if I go, they will come back. And when I come back, you'll be gone."

The patient was nodding, but Martha didn't really expect that he was agreeing with her or commiserating. He was just acknowledging _words_ perhaps.

"But I reckon I've got to look away sometime," she told him sadly. "I mean, I really want to keep my eyes on it so that no one can take you, take me. I want to keep my eyes on it, and never blink, never turn away, but I can't. It's too much. Everyone, every doctor, every lawyer, every teacher and accountant, we all have to take a holiday. We all have to look away, and trust that our world won't be displaced when our eyes are shut…"

She was talking herself into taking this break. She needed it, she knew it. She also knew that she needed some distance on this Rodina-Krev affair, but she feared she may never get perspective if she stayed here. So the patient acted as her sounding board as she rationalised her fears and her aches, and her need to get away.

"So I know someone who will help you. And she'll always bring you back to the Tardis… are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah, of course. Always," he said, swallowing hard, not looking okay.

* * *

><p>Martha took more files and tapes home with her. She sat in her kitchen, not eating the salad she'd made for herself, and just stared at the tape. She was exhausted and feeling dead inside, and guilty. She desperately wanted to phone Sarah Jane for comfort, but she knew there was a reason that Sarah Jane had withdrawn herself – she knew that Martha needed to start making her own way.<p>

That afternoon, after committing Tim Latimer and talking the patient's ear off, she had put in for some time off. She had only been at the BBC for a couple of months, but frequent holidays were encouraged, given the nature and intensity of the work. So, in forty-eight hours, she and her sister would take off for Spain and lie on the beach for seven days. Martha hoped that she'd be able to come to terms with her feelings and her questions… and her patient. And Tim Latimer. And Joan Redfern. And Rose Tyler's story – all of it.

She'd phoned the centre where she'd worked before coming here, and they'd recommended a medical student to fill in during Martha's absence. The BBC had agreed, and Martha chose to trust that she'd be all right for a week.

She chose not to consider the possibility that the patient might like _her_ better than Martha.

As such, she promised herself that she'd find a _male_ nurse to help her out with the patient, at least for a while, at least until her personal paranoia abated.

And she promised herself she'd at least listen to and read narratives as far as the initial closure of the Tardis before going on holiday, so that she would have one less emotional hurdle when she came back.

She was up to the late 1980's and knew that things were getting tough for the Tardis at that stage. The Sixth patient died in 1987, and had been replaced by yet another "Doctor." Dr. Bush had gone, and had been replaced by a young prodigy named Dorothy McShane. She had not yet completed her M.D. by the time she arrived to care for the Seventh Patient, but she was very, very close, and only twenty years old. She had come through the BBC on her psychiatric rotation in medical school, and the facility's leadership thought she'd be a great addition, since she seemed to be so clever, and funding was running low. Many benefactors and patrons had pulled out of the BBC, and the Tardis ward in particular, because the psychiatric staff stopped being able to justify itself. And Martha, in her current state of mind, could not blame them. Many questions had crept into her head, and very few answers had been forthcoming.

And McShane _was_ clever. Martha had been impressed by the insights of this youngster, and could see why she'd been rushed through university and medical school. But she couldn't save the Tardis project, and finally, in 1989, the writing was on the wall. Martha knew that all she had to do was listen to another half-hour's worth of narrative from McShane and she'd be through, and free to tie up loose ends at the clinic, but she felt daunted.

She pressed 'play' and buried her face in her hands, and just listened.

Eventually the end came. "Dorothy McShane, 22 November, 1989. This is our last week in the Tardis, it has been decided. The patient will be moved to another facility, God Knows Where, and I will… I don't know. Return, as they say, to the drawing board, and find a new job. It's going to be tough – my heart was really in this one. I want to stay, but our funding has been cancelled. There is nothing left for me, or for him. Not here, anyway.

"The Tardis can be a wonderful place. But it's a misunderstood place. Other psychiatrists tell us it's useless. The families of the patients have told us it's useless. Sometimes I feel useless. But if the walls could talk, they would tell us that the patients who live here thrive. They have adventures, make friends, learn new things, and make up new rules for living. The patients touch our lives, they make us see the world differently, see the universe in a much broader sense, they make us contemplate the meaning of time and space and reality. I question whether reality can be objective, and whether it matters. The reality within the patients' heads is so much more fascinating, and so much more real to them than the one that we psychiatrists, and people who live in the world, spend our time constantly questioning. These are the things we learn from the Doctor in the Tardis.

"But so little of it is quantifiable. So little of it is practical or applicable in this thing that we call _reality_, so when it comes time to say _here is why you should give us more money_, we wind up sounding like children holding onto a balloon that wants to fly away. Maybe the Doctor gives us back that child-like fancy, and that's his real magic. And it's no wonder why _facility leadership_ can't stand it. They can't see it, and they're envious. But that's their own fault for choosing to stay away, to stay hands-off and not get involved in the Doctor's world.

"And so, the Doctor's world comes to an end for now. Officially, of course, the reasoning has to do with so-called science and potential lawsuits and some investigation. The historic Ward 40 delusion has come to the attention of the council, and some experts who have never set foot here, have deemed it the result of a chemical in the air. I'd rather think of it as a curse or a haunting. But who cares if it _is_ a chemical? The patients are doomed anyway – why not let them come in and teach us a few things while they go slowly more insane? There's more to life than data – Jesus, why did I become a doctor again?

"If the Tardis gets in the patients' heads, then it's in all of our heads. The council doesn't like it, but there's a heritage here. There's a lineage, almost, of doctors, patients, _the Doctor_ and his companions… and it's all okay. Even if we're all sick, we're all okay. Curses to this… I'm going home. The Tardis is finished."

Martha pressed stop.

She thought about Dorothy McShane's words. She was right – maybe the patient's skewed reality didn't matter, as long as there was something to be learned about life and the universe and consciousness. She felt silly for being so certain that her patient had to get _better _in order for her to be doing her job – she silently thanked Dorothy for that particular insight

But she could relate also to those who said the Tardis needed to be shut for a time. She was getting away, because the Tardis was getting into her head. She was having thoughts and "premonitions" and feelings that she'd never had before. It was getting to Tim Latimer, as he was seeing something in the Doctor that no-one else could see, a kind of fixture or pillar of time and space that could pull humanity together with a greater consciousness.

And it was certainly in the patient's head – all of the patients' heads.

So did that mean that she, Martha, was a patient now too? Latimer had come undone, so it could happen to her. Perhaps that's just what this holiday was all about.

Time to look away for a bit, even if it meant a bit of dysplasia.


	11. Chapter 11

ELEVEN

The Mediterranean sun had done her a lot of good. Commiserating with her sister who had just been dumped, that had done her some good as well. Counselling someone without being their shrink was a coup for her – she got to say things like "Pff, screw him. You're way out of his league anyway," and "Well, go have a shag, if you're feeling that lonely." These were things that a sister could say, but a psychiatrist couldn't.

She had enjoyed engaging in things that normal young women do – getting tipsy and flirting with good-looking men who had ogled her in her bikini, thinking about having a one-night stand with one of them but talking herself out of it. She'd jogged on the beach, and eaten the freshest seared tuna she'd ever tried, and practised her Spanish. She felt sun-kissed and privileged to live in the world.

But she found that her mind was never far away from the BBC, or her patient. She was horrified on the second day of her holiday to find that she _missed him_.

"Oh come off it," her sister Tish had scolded, much in the sisterly way that Martha had scolded her. "You probably just miss the intellectual stimulation or something. Don't worry about it. Just have another Mudslide and forget about it."

"It's not that simple, Tish."

"Martha, think about it. You miss him – okay. If you had your way, and he were here right now, what would you be doing, that could ease the _ache_ or whatever you're feeling?"

It was a good question, the psychiatrist in Martha thought. It was a simple, probing question that forced one to search the psyche just a bit, enough to delineate a few superficial desires and the wellspring from whence they came.

_I'd be resting my head on his chest and staring at the sapphire sea. Feeling my skin catch fire as he ran his hand up my leg. Kissing at sunset, making love on the sand under the stars…_

Martha shuddered.

But Tish ploughed on. "You'd probably be sitting here, talking to him about his problems, making notes, saying things like _interesting… how does that make you feel, _and making him cry and have a breakthrough of some sort. I know you. That's the kind of rubbish that gets you going. Now have another drink and let it go."

Of course, Martha hadn't told Tish everything about him. She couldn't – she was constrained by patient confidentiality. All she'd been able to discuss was her feelings toward her patient, so Tish assumed he was just some guy with issues. She had no way of knowing how intoxicating his presence was, and how enthralling the Doctor's life could be to a person who became a part of it.

* * *

><p>And so, ten days later, Martha Jones returned to the BBC, feeling physically refreshed but flogging herself emotionally, just as much as when she'd left. The Tardis was still in her head, and so was the Doctor. There might be no extricating herself now.<p>

The filling-in medical student had gone, and Martha made a mental note to phone her later, and get a full update. She wouldn't see the patient until she had the scoop from her absence. But she was slow getting back into it. She spent time making notes, returning a few less-important calls and e-mails. She made coffee, said hello to some colleagues, gave a few people a run-down of her holiday, showed a few pictures from her phone. She also visited Tim Latimer for a few minutes. He had nothing new to say – just more about the death of the Doctor, the melding of the Time Lord and the human, the higher consciousness, the lower beings…

And then, at five minutes past ten, a courier arrived with a package for Martha, with a CD inside, along with a typed document, with a sticky note reading "Look at me after you've watched the video." It was from the medical student who had cared for the patient in her absence. A nurse came and handed it to her, having signed for it herself.

"Thanks," Martha said. "Blimey, I'd been wondering how come she wasn't here."

The nurse chuckled. "No-one told you?"

"No, what happened?"

"He wouldn't talk to her at all."

"What?"

The nurse chuckled again, and walked away.

Martha hurried back to her office and popped the CD in her laptop. There were two different types of media on the CD – mp4 audio, and a Quicktime video. The narrative was labelled Sparrow0607LISTENFIRST. The video was labelled BBCTenth0607conference. She clicked on the mp4, and listened.

"Er, I'm not sure how to do this, but… well, this is Sally Sparrow, I'm a fourth-year medical student, currently in my second rotation in psychiatrics at the Wester Drumlins Mental Hospital in Kent. I was recruited by Dr. Martha Jones to care for a patient at the Bernard Briscoe Clinic in Ward 40, reserved for deeply delusional cases. I was asked to administer medications, keep the patient interactive, to _play along,_ as it were, and to record those interactions, keeping tabs on the delusion.

"Well, Dr. Jones, if you're listening, I tried all of that. I'm making this recording from the Wester Drumlins Hospital because the patient wouldn't talk to me! He wouldn't acknowledge my presence! He shut down! For two straight days, I went in each hour and tried to speak with him. He was watching DVD's with documentaries of the moon landing and cathedral stone carving in Gothic France. He wouldn't talk to me, but I observed him, and made a few notes. He asked for some video reels of Richard Nixon, and seemed fixated on the stone angels in the documentaries. He drew pictures of them, mostly weeping, and wrote captions such as _they displace you_ and _don't look away, and don't blink._

Sally's voice grew high-pitched on the recording, but she seemed amused. She was incredulous, sure, but it was more of an amusing curiosity to her than a real problem.

For Martha, it was a relief. She had been afraid for the past ten days that the patient would prefer Sally, as he had Joan. Not that she'd ever admit it in a million years.

"On the third day, I phoned the BBC to ask if I should bother coming in, and they said I should take a day away from him, to see if it did any good. They said a nurse would be sent round to check on him, and the hourly inspections would continue – I assume all of that information is on his chart. That evening, I received a notification for request to videoconference. One of the BBC nurses put it through to me, and… it was the patient, speaking to me for the first time ever.

"So I guess it's not entirely true that he wouldn't talk to me. He did eventually talk to me, but only via videoconference. He ignored any other request for conversation. When this narrative ends, please watch the Quicktime video – I recorded our conference session. The psychiatrist who oversees me is Dr. Larry Nightingale, and he was present in the room, but the bulk of the conversation is me and the patient. It is recorded from my end, so all you'll see is him, but you'll hear my voice, and Dr. Nightingale's. I've enclosed a transcript of the conversation as well, to do with as you see fit."

Martha finished listening, pulled up the video, and watched.

The recording began with one of the blank beige walls of the Tardis. Then the patient stepped in and sat down and put on his glasses. Martha smiled. It had been ten days since she'd seen his face, and she'd almost forgotten how much she'd missed it.

"There he is," a male voice said. Martha assumed that it was Larry Nightingale speaking in the background.

"He's the Doctor," Sally's voice commented.

"Yep, that's me," said the patient.

"Who are you, really?" asked Sally.

"I'm a time traveller. Or, I was. I'm stuck in 1969."

Martha chuckled. She'd implanted that. She hadn't meant for the delusion to completely bypass his caregiver in her absence, but it had served the purpose of minimising Sally's responsibilities.

"1969? That's where you're talking from?"

"'Fraid so."

"But you're replying to me. You' can't know exactly what I'm going to say 40 years before I say it."

"Thirty-eight."

"Are you getting this down?" Dr. Nightingale asked. "Should I write in your bits?"

Martha assumed that Sally must have responded with a nod or a shake of her head, because she heard no reply.

"How is this possible?" asked Sally.

"People don't understand time. It's not what you think it is," answered the man on the screen.

"Then what is it?"

"Complicated."

"Tell me."

"Very complicated."

"I'm clever, and I'm listening. And don't patronise me because it make me unhappy. Tell me," Sally demanded, squarely. Martha liked it – it reminded her a bit of herself.

The patient seemed uncomfortable with Sally's reaction, and he shifted in his seat and made a face. But he explained, "People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect. But actually, from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint, it's more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey… stuff."

"What are you on about?" Martha asked the recording, laughing. "Started well, that sentence."

"That sentence got away from you," Sally said sardonically. Martha laughed again.

"It got away from me, yeah," said the patient. "But I know everything _you're_ going to say."

"How is this possible?"

"Look to your left."

"What does he mean, _look to your left_," Nightingale's voice chimed in. "Is it a political statement?"

"He means you," Sally said to him. "What are you doing?"

"I'm writing a complete transcript of your conversation," said Nightingale.

"I've got a copy of the finished transcript," the patient told them.

"How can you have a copy of the finished transcript?" Sally wanted to know. "It's still being written."

"I told you, I'm a time traveller. I got it in the future."

"Okay, let me get my head around this. You're reading aloud from a transcript of a conversation you're still having," Sally said. Martha detected in Sally's parlance the voice of an analyst, confirming the patient's delusion. It was the first such hint she'd received from Sally Sparrow since the videoconference began.

_Bravo to the future Dr. Sparrow._

The patient sighed. "Wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey. What matters now, is we can communicate. We have got big problems. They've taken the blue box, haven't they? The angels have the phone box," said the patient.

Martha recalled saying that 'angels' might take him away when she wasn't looking. "Wow, looks like I've got into your head, too, doesn't it?" she said aloud, to the patient on the screen.

"The angels have the phone box," Dr. Nightingale repeated. "That's brilliant. I'm putting that on a tee-shirt."

"What do you mean, angels?"

"Creatures from another world. They're just statues, but only when you see them."

He went on to explain the 'physics' of the angels, how when you look at them, they're stone, they're in stasis. But as soon as you look away, they come after you, and can displace you in time. You die in the past, and they feed on your potential energy, the days and years you might have had. That is what had happened to the Doctor, and now he was stuck in the 1960's with no way home. He was speaking to Sally through video, hoping that she'd find a way to get him back where he was supposed to be.

"You can't kill a stone," the patient said, referring to the angels. "Of course, a stone can't kill you either, but then you turn your head away. Then you blink. And oh, yes it can."

His voice had grown ominous.

"It's up to you now," he was saying to Sally. "The blue box, it's my time machine. There is a world of time energy in there that they could feast on forever, but the damage they could do could switch off the sun. You have _got_ to send it back to me!"

Martha sighed heavily. This wasn't good. Some things she's said to him, more or less offhandedly, had manifested into a delusion that was frightening to the patient, and to her. Sally hadn't been bothered, but Sally did not know him well.

_A stone can't kill you… but then you turn your head away… then you blink… and oh, yes it can._

_The damage they could do could switch off the sun. You have got to send it back to me!_

His last words were desperate, "Don't blink. Don't even blink. Blink and you're dead. They are fast – faster than you can believe. Don't turn your back, don't look away, and don't blink!"

Martha had looked away. She had blinked. She had gone to sun herself in Spain.

And he'd felt threatened enough to do this.

He implored the listener to keep their eyes open, for fear of being popped back in time, "killed," subjected to the end of the world. He felt displaced, jostled out of his comfort zone. Stuck. No Tardis, no escape.

It wasn't the murder of a Spider Queen and her offspring, but it wasn't much better.

She had scared him by leaving.

"I'm sorry, Doctor," she whispered. She wished that she could promise him in person that she'd never go away again, but she knew it was impossible. And the more time that went on, the more impossible she knew it was.

Many, many things in the rapport of the Tenth Patient and Martha Jones were proving impossible.

* * *

><p>She did not see the patient that day, and she knew that it would cause him grief. She knew that he would feel lost and despondent for another day, but she had no idea how to respond to him, how to apologise for serving her own needs.<p>

She felt penitent. And she knew she wouldn't be able to sleep, so she took home the Tenth Patient's chart from the week of her absence, her laptop for composing an e-mail to Sally Sparrow, the transcript of the videoconference for analysis and making notes, as well as the files labelled as the Eighth Patient's chart and narrative.

She knew it would be short, but to her surprise, it was only a couple of minutes long, and the recording was made in March of 2005. Her jaw dropped as the voice on the recording began.

"Today is 20th March, 2005, this is Dr. Rose Tyler. Ward 40 will be in renewed operation once again in less than a week, but we don't, as yet, have the computer system up and running. It's very frustrating, and I feel like I'm living in the dark ages by using an analog tape to do a patient narrative, but… we do what we must. I just hope we get the network going by the time the new patient arrives, or else we'll have to file everything by hand again. And frankly, we're all a bit out of practise, if any of us were in practise in the first place.

"But I digress. Upon inspection of the narrative files, I have discovered that the disastrous re-opening of the Ward, the Tardis, in 1996 has not been covered for record. Since I have volunteered to see in the Ninth Patient, it falls to me to fill in the blanks, and take up the slack where needed."

Martha stopped the tape. She took a deep breath.

She was hearing the voice of the woman who had indelibly imprinted herself upon the soul of the Tenth Patient. The next time she saw him, Rose's voice would be in her head, her words bouncing about in Martha's brain. Until now, Rose had been a faraway being, someone almost mythic, a cautionary tale, as well as something to strive for… but not anymore. She'd been blindsided by this narrative, and it made her heart beat faster. And she wouldn't be able to mention this experience to the patient, because the patient was still so attached, and perhaps still prone to volatility.

Martha pushed aside her nervousness, her childish jealousy, and assessed. Rose was a Londoner. She sounded lower middle-class, and young, but serious and clever. Probably had to fight tooth-and-nail to get through medical school. Just that alone made Martha want to respect her, in spite of the big crash and burn she knew was coming.

So she started the tape again, ready to give Rose Tyler the benefit of the doubt. The doctor on the tape spoke evenly, with no emotion, in a _just the facts ma'am_ sort of way.

"This information goes only as far as I know, and that's not very far. From what I can tell from the Eighth Patient's chart and some extremely spotty notes, left _literally _on yellow post-its all the way through, and from speaking with some of the other doctors and nurses who were here at the BBC at the time, I have pieced this together.

"Grace Holloway was the attending doctor (if we can really call her _attending _or a _doctor_). And he went into cardiac arrest just after arriving here. Dr. Holloway attempted to defibrilate him, and when that didn't work, she called in an emergency team. They diagnosed some type of congenital heart condition and put him into surgery straight away. The patient, in keeping with the historical delusion, informed Dr. Holloway that he has two hearts, and cannot be operated on. She dismissed him rather harshly, and put him under, insisting on having him operated on anyway. After that, there is no indication that she ever saw him again, or interacted with him while he was convalescing from the heart surgery. All she did was adjust his meds and check his chart from time to time. The staff at the time was not even sure that she was in the building except for one hour per day to check her messages and socialise with the nurses. When the patient seized again and went back into cardiac arrest, obviously it wasn't the result of two hearts, but… well, he had warned Dr. Holloway that there was something wrong, that he shouldn't be operated on… and something went wrong, clearly. She responded when the second emergency occurred, but attempted then to palm off the patient on one of the nurses, and declined to travel in the Tardis with the Doctor when he offered her the opportunity. This was considered a great mistake by the directors of the facility, as the attending psychiatrist has always _travelled,_ as it were, as the Doctor's companion. Why would she bother being here, if she was just going to say no to him?

"In any case, the patient died in his sleep within two weeks of his arrival, and autopsy results showed complications from the surgery. As his guardian, Dr. Holloway was guilty of negligence, and as a doctor, of medical malpractise. She was relieved of her licence to practise medicine. The Ward was shut again, and the protocols re-assessed. I'll get into this more later, when we discuss the Ninth Patient. Thank you."

* * *

><p>For the first time ever, Martha struck out in the middle of the night, and went back to the Tardis. It was past two in the morning, but the story of Grace Holloway, the negligent doctor who had ignored the needs of her patient, resulting in his death, stuck with her.<p>

Grace had turned away, and the angels had got him.

The psychiatrists are the last line of defence between the patients and the powers-that-be. She'd slipped in her duties, she felt. Even if it wasn't technically true, the videoconference with Sally Sparrow revealed to her that the patient _desperately_ felt it was true.

The patient was asleep, of course, when she arrived.

"Doctor?" she said, trying to wake him.

He did not move at first.

"Doctor?" she repeated, this time shaking him a little.

He stirred. He turned over and looked right at her, eyes open, blinking.

"Doctor, I'm so sorry," she said, sitting down on the bed. "Can you forgive me? I hated leaving you… I needed some space. I needed to think. I'm feeling some things about you… I mean, I have feelings for you. I couldn't face them, didn't know what to do with them. I still don't. I can't talk about them, and I can't act on them, but I also can't get past them." Tears rolled down her face.

The patient was silent.

She reduced her voice to a whisper. "I think I love you, and I don't know what to do about it. I'm supposed to be the one who knows..." She caught her breath. "But it's important that _you_ know, I am here to take care of you, and that is what I will do. I will never ignore you, I promise. I will never put my own needs before yours. And no matter what Grace Holloway did, or what Tim Latimer says, _nothing_ is going to happen to you. I will protect you."

He still had his eyes open, staring at her, into her eyes. But then he turned over quite suddenly, and seemed to go back to sleep.

This startled her, took her breath away. She gasped a little with the shock. He had looked right at her, and hadn't even acknowledged that she was there.

"Doctor?" she whispered.

_Oh, God. What the hell did I do?_

"Doctor?"


	12. Chapter 12

**I think you guys will like this. :-)**

* * *

><p><span>TWELVE<span>

"Dr. Jones?" a voice said.

It startled her out of her panic. She was still sitting on the bed, wondering what the hell she'd done, and crying.

She looked up with a little jump. "Oh, hi." She wiped some tears away. "Can I help you?"

"I'm just doing a routine check, though, I guess I'm a little late," the man said, looking at his watch, which Martha noted, had a very small face attached to a three-inch-thick, worn-out leather band. He stepped tentatively into the room. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, just… having a little meltdown," she said, wiping tears and trying to sound cute and self-deprecating. She gestured to the patient. "He… he's sort of ignoring me. He's never done that before. It's _really _frustrating."

"Ah. Yeah, he's been doing that all week."

"I'm sorry, who are you?" she asked, trying to be as polite as she could.

"Oh, sorry. I thought you knew… I'm a nurse here, I was put on the night watch after Nurse Redfern removed herself," he said. "My name's Jack."

Martha shook his hand, and couldn't help but match his smile. He was a beautiful, beautiful man. He had what might be called All-American Good Looks to match his crisp American accent. He was tall, broad-shouldered, perfect teeth, aquamarine eyes and a confident charm that practically oozed from his pores. But what she felt in his presence was not attraction, only ease. She felt safe and comfortable around him, for some reason. The man had a talent, she had to admit, after only ten seconds of knowing him. She supposed it could be called _charisma_ of a very high order.

"Nice to meet you," she began again. "Erm, what do you mean he's been doing that all week? I thought he just wouldn't talk to Miss Sparrow."

"No, he hasn't talked to anyone," he said. "Even me. I mean, he's never really been super-friendly with me... barely notices I exist, I think. But usually if he's awake - and that's a big _if - _he'll at least wave when I come in, but not the past ten nights."

"That's interesting," Martha said, crossing her arms.

"He's been talking to you, though, like a ghost."

"To me?"

"Yeah, like talking to the walls, calling them Martha. It's in his chart."

"I haven't got round to reading the chart from the week I was on holiday yet," she admitted. "I got a little sidetracked - I guess that's why I'm here in the middle of the night. What's he been saying to me?"

"I'm not sure. I'm on the night crew, I haven't heard much of it. And what I've heard, I haven't understood," Jack told her. "But, I can tell you from talking to some of the people in the day crew, he's been ignoring everyone. He looks right at them, refuses to acknowledge them."

Martha's heart skipped a beat. It wasn't just her. It wasn't just what she'd said. Dared she hope that he hadn't even heard her? She almost told Jack right then and there what she'd done, such was the level of ease he exuded. But she refrained, having to remind herself that she's a trained professional, not a teen-ager taken in (again) by a pretty face.

"Well," she covered. "I'm glad to know it's not just me."

"Yeah," he said slowly, looking at her sideways. "I guess you must be. You were mightily upset."

"I guess I've put a lot of effort into him," she shrugged. "Just… infuriating is all. Like building a door through a brick wall, only to try and walk through it, and it's been bricked up again."

"I can see that," he nodded. "Want to get a cup of coffee? You look like you could use a boost."

"Oh, thanks, I shouldn't…"

"Come on," he urged, taking her arm. "We'll just go to the employee lounge. Nothing untoward will happen, I swear it."

She smiled. "Untoward?" she asked, moving slowly with him.

"Yes," he promised. "First of all, there are security cameras everywhere. Second of all, I'm a former U.S. Air Force Captain, and I give you my word of honour as an officer and a gentleman."

"All right. Good enough for me."

"Thirdly, I'm in a relationship. And fourthly, and most importantly, I'm gay. If anything, I'll just use you for your hair-care products."

"Lovely."

* * *

><p>Martha and Jack talked for a long while, swapped stories about previous jobs, told a few jokes, and discussed the relative hotness of the male cast of the <em>Lord of the Rings <em>films. Jack went back on his rounds, and Martha stayed overnight, ostensibly to observe the patient, but really just because she didn't know what else to do with herself. There was nothing to observe – he remained asleep. Eventually, she returned home only to shower, eat a bowl of oatmeal and change into clothes that normal people wear during the day. Then she came back to the BBC. She was shaking on the drive back to the facility, after the numerous cups of coffee, and the nervousness exacerbated by the caffeine.

Jack was just leaving as she pulled up. She jumped out of the car and thanked him for his counsel, and for forcing her to get out of her own head for a while. He hugged her, and she found that she relaxed completely.

She had an idea.

"Jack, do you like working the night shift?"

"Meh. Got stuck with it after Dr. Tyler tossed me out. Worked over in the Torchwood wing for a while, then Joan asked me to switch with her a couple weeks ago."

"Dr. Tyler tossed you out?"

"Yeah. Just after _he_ got here," he smiled. "We worked just fine together with the Ninth Patient. But this one? Took one look at him and I guess she wanted him all to herself."

Martha took a deep breath. "Oh, Jack, you don't know how right you are."

He smirked now. "Oh, yes I do. Rose Tyler is legendary."

She caught a chill. "Legendary?"

"Yep. She revived the place, got it going again, breathed new life into that Ninth Patient. Excellent person, and an exceptional doctor, really. _Tragically _not in control of her emotions."

Martha caught a chill again. Now that Sarah Jane was gone, had the fates sent Jack to serve as the voice of warning?

"Really?"

"Well, you must know by now that she was a tad sweet on him," he said.

"Yeah, got that much."

"None of us can control how we feel but, most of us can refrain from weeping and blurting out _I love you_ in front of God and the world, to our patients. If she hadn't done that, her career might have stood a chance."

_Weeping and blurting out I love you. Fantastic. Where have I heard that scenario before? Oh yes…_

Martha gulped. "In front of God and the world? How d'you mean?"

Just then, a black SUV pulled up and someone honked. A good-looking man in a black suit rolled down the window.

"Time go, sir," he said to Jack. "Or there will be no time to stop off at Raimundo's and we'll have to do bloody Starbucks. And for that, I will never forgive you."

"Gotta go, Martha," Jack said.

"Your boyfriend calls you _sir?_" Martha whispered.

"It's not as kinky as it sounds. We met on a joint British-American airstrike in Afghanistan," said Jack. "I was his commanding officer, that's all."

"Jack, seriously, I'm already late," said the man in the SUV.

"Okay, Martha, see you soon, I hope," Jack chirped, kissing her on the cheek.

"Wait, Jack," she said. "What would you say if I could get you on the day shift with me?"

"He'd love it," the man in the car said. "He'd be over the bloody moon! And maybe I'd get to see him from time to time."

Jack shushed him. "Let me handle this, would you?" he said. To Martha, he added, "I'd love it. I'd be over the bloody moon."

"I'll see what I can do," she told him. "I'd really like to work with you more."

"Thanks," he said. "I'd like that too. Just look up my number in the personnel database, if you need to reach me."

Martha smiled, and watched Jack get in.

The SUV inched forward, then lurched to a stop. Jack's window came down, and she heard the boyfriend whine, "Oh, for f… really, Jack?"

"Martha!"

"Yes?" she said, going round to meet him.

"Forgot to tell you," he said. "This morning, while you were gone, he was observed talking to you. I did take the proper channels and wrote it all down, but thought you might like to know."

"Oh! Thanks!"

"He said something like, _I promise, just a little bit longer, Martha. We've no idea when Sally will send it to us – it just happens one day, and I'm sorry you have to work in that shop… _stuff like that. It was a whole speech."

Suddenly, a light came on inside her mind.

"Thank you, Jack, for telling me," she said. "Thank you so much! I'll call you!"

The black SUV drove off, and Martha ran into the BBC, not saying hello to anyone. She reached her office and dialled Sally Sparrow in Kent.

"Sally, it's Martha Jones," she said. "Listen, the patient has been acting weird, and I know how to fix it. But I'm going to need your help!"

* * *

><p>Sally Sparrow arrived shortly after noon, with an eager smile on her face.<p>

"Thanks for coming out," Martha said, letting her in through the armoured door. "I know it's a drive."

"I'm happy to help," Sally told her. "I was just sorry I couldn't help more while I was here."

"It's not your fault," Martha said. "It's mine."

"So what am I doing here?"

"I worked out this morning that the patient is rejecting everyone, ignoring all efforts at conversation because he believes he is still trapped in 1969," she said. "He's in some kind of fantasy, _with me_, and won't acknowledge _the real me_ because the 1969 loop won't abate. He's stuck in it. Literally."

"Okay, with you so far."

"We need to bring closure to that story for him," Martha said. "You know how he said in the videoconference that he got the transcript in the future?"

"Yes."

"Well, you're going to give it to him now," Martha said. "He'll think he's receiving the script for the first time, and will think that all that _don't blink_ business hasn't happened yet."

"How do you know?"

"I don't – it's a hunch. But I know my patient well, and he kept saying it on the video. Time traveller, got it in the future, mentioned the transcript a bunch of times… and it's the only thing that will bring closure. If you think about what he said about time being non-linear and not a strict progression of cause to effect… this is what will complete the…"

"Timey wimey bits?" asked Sally with a smile.

"Exactly."

"Worth a shot. Lead on."

* * *

><p>"This is Martha Jones, 6th June, 2011. Things are a bit back to normal.<p>

"Well, I guess I haven't recorded anything abnormal… so here's a quick run-down: the patient was somewhat traumatised by my leaving on holiday. The trauma was vividly displayed in the videoconference with Sally Sparrow, with whom he refused to speak directly. Before my holiday, I had said something about not wanting to turn my back on him, take my eyes away, because I was afraid someone would take him from me, after the events of the Rodina Krev invasion… this manifested in a rather disturbing delusion in which creatures can literally _get you _if you turn away, or blink. The patient believed himself to be trapped without his time machine in the year 1969, and Sally Sparrow, via videoconference, somehow represented a way to get back home, with these creatures as an impediment.

"Disturbingly, the dissociative behaviour continued after my return. I attempted to speak with him, and he ignored me. I was very, very distressed by this because…"

Martha felt that old familiar tightening in her throat, that feeling that said _stop talking right now, or you'll regret it_.

"Moreover, I learned from Jack, one of the nurses, that during my absence, the patient refused to speak to anyone and everyone. He did say, however, that the patient spoke to _me _in my absence - he seemed to believe I was there.

"I must say, I feel as though the fates have shined down upon me by sending me Jack Harkness. Captain Jack, he calls himself sometimes, sort of tongue-in-cheek. But… I can't explain it. It's like he's got magical powers. He puts me at ease effortlessly and immediately. I've only known him a day, and I feel relaxed just thinking about him. And aside from being a reassuring presence, and someone who seems to think the way I do, he gave me some, shall we call it _intelligence_ about the patient's behaviours during a time when I'd left to regroup, that led me to conclude that the patient still believed himself to be trapped in 1969 _with me_. Given the discussion of time fluctuations in the videoconference and the fact that we have a transcript of the interview, I wondered if Sally Sparrow's giving him the script would snap him out of his daze. It did. The Doctor, as it were, is back in the Tardis. He acknowledges me, though I don't know…"

_Careful, Martha._

"He acknowledges me. That's what's important. If any of this makes any sense to an impartial listener, I'll be quite surprised. Needless to say, Sally Sparrow's short narrative, along with a copy of the videoconference transcript is enclosed in the file, as well as the video itself. The patient uses the phrase _timey wimey_, which Sally and I believe represents the circular nature of time in his mind… an event causes another, but only because someone in the future knew it, and came back in time to set it in motion. It's tough to get my mind around."

Martha thought about this for a few seconds, before realising that none of it was real. It was all "laws" of time and space that "the Doctor" had invented years back, as a way of coping with a difficult delusion. But for a moment in that time, she felt she understood how it played out. The Doctor, the angels, Sally Sparrow, the Tardis, the bending of the lines between 1969 and 2007…

There it was. In her head again.

A week in the Mediterranean sun hadn't scrubbed her brain sufficiently. Damn it.

"Anyway, there it is. Oh, I should mention, I've asked Jack to come onto the day shift with me. He worked with Dr. Tyler and the Ninth Patient, but she booted him for... well, I'm sure she had her own reasons. Since the incident with Joan Redfern, Jack has been on the night shift with the Tenth Patient, but I'm looking forward to having him on the sunny side with me. I feel like I need a buffer, a reminder…"

_Martha, shut up!_

"Jack will be good for me, and for the patient. And now… oh, I'm knackered. Again. Good night."


	13. Chapter 13

THIRTEEN

"Good morning, Dr. Jones," Jack chirped, sticking his head into her office. "Flyin' by the seat of your pants like always, I see."

Martha looked up from her paperwork. "Oh yeah. Status reports. A rip-roaring good time," she said.

"Mm. I was wondering how come I hadn't been invited to the party."

"Didn't think you could handle it," she shrugged. "I've been to medical school, you know."

He smiled brightly at her. "Thanks for this, Martha. You have no idea how great it is to be back on day watch. My s.o. thanks you, too. As it was, we got to see each other a total of twenty minutes a day during the week. Now we can be a real couple again. He's making pork chops tonight to celebrate."

"My pleasure. I'm really glad to see you," she told him sincerely. "I feel like I've been flying solo for a bit too long. Which is not really true… just feels like it."

"I hear you," he told her, saluting. "I'll get the morning meds out of the way. Let me know if you need anything else."

Martha went back to her status reports, making a deal with herself that in an hour, no matter where she landed in her paperwork, she'd go in and commune with the patient. She was going blind with all the tiny type.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, she sat in the cantine staring at the boomerang pattern on the formica table in front of her. Off and on over the past three months, Martha had wondered if these were the original tables from when the facility opened in 1963. She wondered absently today, because at the forefront of her mind, there was something else. Yet another worrisome neurosis concerning the Tenth Patient.<p>

Jack was at the counter pouring boiling water into two styrofoam cups.

"It's okay, Martha," Jack chuckled, setting a cup of steeping tea down in front of her. He sat beside her.

"You died," she said, looking up at him pleadingly. "He killed you off."

"He didn't kill me. I died in the time vortex." As Jack said this so matter-of-factly, she marvelled for a moment at how truly strange her life had become. That someone could just say stuff like _I died in the time vortex_, and she'd know exactly what he meant was truly remarkable, and would have been unthinkable to a younger Martha Jones.

"No, in his mind, he killed you _off,_" she protested. "Like a television producer _kills off_ a character, though the character might die in any number of ways."

"So what? I found a solution. Sat up and gasped, now I'm immortal. Maybe someday he'll tell me why."

"Yeah, good, now you're immortal, but that's not the point."

"What's the point?"

"He wanted you gone! It's so weird. It's like he's railing against you."

"He's a mental patient, Martha. He's supposed to act weird and rail against random things. That's what makes it fun."

Martha looked up at him suddenly. She was ready to take him to task for using the word _fun_, but his smirk gave away that it had been a joke of sorts. She smiled and sighed. "I guess."

"Yeah, we'll just deal with it. And now that I'm unkillable, he's stuck with me."

"Very clever," she said.

Outside the swinging plastic door, there was commotion. Patients were shouting and wailing, doctors and nurses were calming them, and it seemed, herding them to another part of the hospital.

"What the hell is that?" she asked Jack.

He shrugged and the two of them headed for the door and found the expected chaos.

"What's up?" Jack asked a nearby medic, who was occupied with a concerned, but relatively calm, patient.

"Some people just burst through the door and stalked through here with security chasing after them," the young man told him.

"Ah," Jack said, nodding. The sight of security guards doing anything other than standing still always agitated the patients. "Who were they?"

"Dunno," he shrugged. "Headed for Ward 40."

"Oh, what now?" Martha half-whined, half-shouted, now bolting for the Tardis door herself.

When she arrived in her corridor, there were two people peeking into the Tardis through the windows, and security guards standing nearby, asking them politely to leave.

"Sir, madam, we really, _really_ must insist that you turn back now," one of them was saying. "This is a restricted area. Sir? Sir?"

The _sir _and _madam_ in question were completely ignoring them, of course.

Martha shouted, "Blimey, what are you, security guards or bloody royal butlers? Get them out! Use force if you have to!"

The man turned and looked at her. He was about sixty, white hair, eyes very close together, and a satisfied smile on his face. The woman next to him was perhaps Martha's age, ambiguously dark, probably mixed-race. Martha detected Indian, African and Chinese traits, all rolled into one. She was attractive… or would have been, if she hadn't been scowling at her. Both of them were dressed for business.

"Now now," said the man, as though trying to lull her into submission. "Don't you even want to go to the trouble of finding out who we are?"

"No," Martha spat. "You breach security, you're out, end of discussion."

"I'm Mr. Yana, and this is Miss Chantho," he said. "Delighted to make your acquaintance."

"The feeling is _not_ mutual. Out."

"Come on, boys," Jack said to the security guards. "Let's show them the door." He advanced on the intruders.

"Oh, so much anger," said Yana. "You really should have that seen to."

By now, Jack had him by the back of the neck and the arm, and one of the guards had taken Miss Chantho by the arm as well.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Martha said. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be calling the police now."

"It's just as I thought, Dr. Jones," Yana said as Jack pushed him past her. "You're still keeping the patient locked up in a cage like an animal."

"Excuse me?" she said. Jack stopped, with Yana still in his clutches.

"The conditions here are as inhumane as we have heard. My client will not be best pleased, rest you assured, pretty lady," said the reptilian man.

"I'll thank you to address me properly as Dr. Jones," she said, now shaking with anger. "And I don't believe I asked you, nor anyone else, for an opinion on the conditions here. And even if I had, the conditions here are ideal for a mental patient in the constant throes of an active delusion according to prevailing psychiatric research, and are entirely ethical and appropriate according to British law. Now get out of this hospital."

"Oh, I know what you're thinking, Dr. Jones," Yana said silkily. "First Solomon and Diagoras and the Daleks. Then the facility's psychiatric directors and the Rodina Krev Institute. Now this! Oh, what is it with strangers coming in thinking they know your patient better than you do?"

Martha was silent. Anything she could say right now would sound juvenile, anything she could do would result in Yana doubling over in pain. So she stood still.

"Well, it so happens that my client _does_ know him better than you do," he continued.

"Your client?"

"Yes," he said, shrugging Jack's grip off and reaching into his breast pocket. He handed her a business card. "Miss Chantho and I are attorneys with the Malcolm Sairo Law Firm. Perhaps you've heard of us?"

"Nope."

"I have," Jack said. "Bunch of ambluance chasers. Bullies."

Yana smiled. "If you like. I'm obviously in no position to argue. But we represent a party who is interested in the well-being of the patient currently imprisoned in Ward 40, and after what we've seen, he will definitely be suing for custody of the patient, and will insist on his immediate removal."

"Ugh," Martha groaned. "Again? Sing me a new one. Jack, would you get him out of here, please? Her too?"

Jack and the security guards escorted Mr. Yana and his seemingly silent associate out of the building. Martha went back to her office to tremble in private, because this was a different kind of trembling, not entirely alien to her, but still inexplicable. It was not simply anger, it was _knowing_. Something was coming, and everything was about to change – she could feel it. She was a doctor, a scientist. She was supposed to operate on data and quantifiable evidence.

But lately, since she came to the Tardis, she could feel things. She remembered feeling at the beginning of her tenure here that the elaboration of the patient's delusions somehow made them more real. She knew it was absurd that a _delusion_ of someone else should feel at all _real _to her, but she felt what she felt.

She could feel the bending of time between 1969 and 2007. She had felt a frisson of concern, but also a fascination when Tim Latimer had spoken his cryptic words, as though somehow she was aware that they were important. And she had felt, months before, a similar type of _knowing_ when she'd read the story of the Fourth Patient's death, and had begun to wonder about the family life of her own patient. Not knowing his name nor his background had been more than just a bother to her – it had been fully disturbing, painful like a wound. It was all connected, she could feel it. A big ball of…

It was a continuum of nonlinear information. The Tardis, she had realised a while back, had got in her head, and now it felt as though it was trying to tell her something. As though it was knocking on the walls of reality…

…she heard a knock on her office door. Jack waited for her to invite him in, then he opened the door.

"He's gone," Jack said, coming in and sitting down at the chair across from her.

"Did you call the police?"

"They'd charge me with assault, I'm sure. They might do that anyway."

"Assault?" she exclaimed, smiling wide. "What did you do to them?"

"Nothing they didn't deserve. There may have been some collar-grabbing and very Captain-y behaviour."

"You're amazing, have I told you that?" she asked. Then her face went dark. She pounded her fist down on the desk. "Damn it, Jack, who are they? And why the hell can't I catch a break? I've read the files, listened to the narratives – no other doctor had this much bloody trouble holding onto their patient!"

"I'd bet they all did," Jack said. "One way or another. You're just one of the few who cares this much."

"What?"

"Think about it," he said. "Your average shrink, threaten to remove the patient, the worst they'll do is go in a conference room and _discuss _options, because they know that their hands are ultimately tied. You have a personal involvement that…"

She waited for him to finish that thought.

When he didn't, she asked, "What?"

"Personal involvement, Martha. You know _what."_

"I guess it's obvious," she said, teeth clenched.

"Oh, it's obvious. To me, anyway. But I've got a bit of a sixth sense about these things. I don't think anyone else knows. Least of all, the patient, so I think you're safe."

"I told him a couple of nights ago, but it was during the time when he was ignoring everyone. I'm pretty sure he doesn't remember."

"You told him?"

She nodded.

"Martha, you got lucky," he said.

"I know. But maybe not. Dr. Smith knew."

"Dr. Smith has her own reasons, and frankly, her own problems," Jack pointed out. "You know that as well as I do. The point is, Martha, that no matter what the psychiatric directors, or whoever else, say, that connection is good. It's good for the patient. It makes it impossible for you to let go, or think about anything other than him."

"And that's _good_?" Martha wasn't sold.

"I once heard love defined as putting someone else's happiness before your own," Jack told her. "And yeah, that's a pretty simplistic definition, but it's a damn good place to start. And for you, putting his happiness, his needs, before your own means that you're being a good doctor. It means you fight for him. It means you're passionate."

She stared off into the corner of the room, letting that word echo in her head. _Passionate_.

And then Jack seemed to read her mind. "Of course, there is a such thing as _too passionate_," he reminded her. "But I don't think you're anywhere near that point yet. You've still got your wits about you, more or less."

"Thank God I have you," she said, her voice breaking just slightly. "Will you help me_ keep_ my wits about me?"

"I'll do my best."

"In the meantime, what will we do about the Malcolm Sairo people?"

"Oh, they're nasty nasty," Jack told her, an expression of distaste forming. "They're what you might call a _high-powered_ firm. If O.J. Simpson had been tried in Britain, he'd have hired them. They're like barricudas. Their reputation is… well, we might be in trouble."

"You think they'll actually be able to take him out of here?"

"Well, they're scary dudes, Martha. They're scary enough to make most organisations, including this one, lay down its weapons voluntarily."

"Because it's better than being bayonetted?"

"Exactly."

She thought about the implications of this. She still had no idea where they were coming from.

"Well, who's their client?" asked Martha shrilly.

Jack sighed. "That's just it – it's someone even scarier than the law firm itself. Yana told me in the parking lot – sort of blurted it out as I was… _escorting _him. I don't think he had intended to."

"Well, he hadn't intended to get manhandled by a former U.S. Air Force Captain."

Jack smirked. "My body qualifies as a deadly weapon."

She smiled. "No doubt. So who's the client?"

"It's Harold Saxon."

Martha choked. "The Minister of Defence?"

"Yep."

"Holy shit!"

"Yep."

"What interest does he have? And other than being a government bigwig, what right does he have to make any decisions for my patient?"

"No idea."

* * *

><p>A forlorn female voice came through the speakers and filled the file room. Martha had been listening now for just over an hour. She had already heard the account of Dr. Tyler's first meeting with the Ninth Patient. She had brought in some plastic mannequins to see whether he would manifest them in his delusion, and how. She thought perhaps there could be a Tardis "crew," but instead, he turned them into the enemy. Living plastic, it was called. Mickey, the nurse on the day rotation with Rose, had been swallowed up by the living plastic, only to be revived by a sort of science-fiction mechanism, invented by Rose.<p>

It reminded Martha of how her patient had tried to kill off Captain Jack, but he'd brought himself back to life. She made a note of it. Before this, no Doctor had ever shown the desire to _possess_ his companion, and be rid of all so-called competition. But now, it had happened to Martha at least twice, once when her patient refused to speak to anyone but her (and only a fictional version of her), and once today. She felt sure that she'd not heard the last of the phenomenon from Rose. She wondered if this behaviour lent itself to the sort of problems that she had Rose had run into with the patient they had in common.

In the following week's narrative, Dr. Tyler told a familiar story. Martha remembered Sarah Jane mentioning it.

"Rose Tyler, 2nd April 2005. The world exploded today. Needless to say, it's very concerning. The historical Doctor has always been an heroic figure, but today he became tragic.

"The Tardis vessel travelled forward five billion years, and the Doctor showed his companion the day when the Earth became consumed by the sun, and all life on the planet was wiped out. I have not been through all of the past narratives, but this is the most morbid, disturbing delusion I have yet encountered, and I was not at all comfortable with it. He wanted me to watch my planet burn!

"What was good about it was that questions of humanity came up. The patient, as the Doctor, expressed admiration for humankind, which is promising, since the Doctor character is not human. It forced me, myself, to explore some of the questions of humanity… which I suppose being with the Doctor in the Tardis will do anyway.

"However, he created a character who had clung to life for so long that she was no longer really human. It is disturbing indeed, because in the Ninth Patient's mind, the Doctor is nigh on nine hundred years old, and has regenerated, cheated death, eight times. The morbidity of the Earth-death scenario, as well as this detail, led me to wonder whether the patient has a death wish. Has he clung to life for so long as the Doctor that he no longer feels… human, or Time Lord, or… whatever it is that he feels? Doesn't feel as though he belongs anywhere anymore?

"He lectured me toward the end of the day today. He gestured toward the television, upon which a documentary on the city of London was playing. He said something about how we believe life will always go on, the pavement and glass and metal will always remain a solid fixture in time and space, turning on this little planet of ours. But he said that we learned today how changeable it really is. The upshot is how futile it is to cling to a home, to a life, to an anchor. Maybe to sanity, even… then he confessed that he felt this way because his home planet had been destroyed in a war, and that he was the only one of his kind left in the universe. This revelation comes on the heels of the decision that the patients should not have any kind of regular connection to their families.

"I believe, on principle, that keeping the family life out is a good decision. I even helped the directors come to that decision. But having witnessed today's episode, in practise, I'm not so sure. As I've said, it may have turned the Doctor into a lonely and tragic figure, which is a burden that the patient in the Tardis simply does not need. The morbidity which he displays may very well be a trait inherent in the original personality of the Ninth Patient from before he became delusional, but I shall be vigilant in observing whether it is _loneliness_ keeping him in this state. A fascination with death is another burden which my patient does not need."

* * *

><p>"This is Dr. Martha Jones, 16 June, 2007… I don't know, it's sometime in the evening. I find myself losing track of time in the Tardis.<p>

"Tonight I feel the weight of synchronicity and the sting of something burning inside, refusing to be ignored or extinguished, but still somehow not revealing itself. We were visited today by lawyers representing the politician Harold Saxon, who seeks to remove my patient from the facility, from my care. We don't know why. This is really nothing new for me, but…

"Rose Tyler's narrative, which is where I'd left off… today I was _meant _to listen to Rose Tyler's early narratives, and I did… she talked about when her patient first deployed the idea that the Doctor's home planet was gone. She discussed exclusion of family from the patient's life.

"And with all of this, something is scratching at me from the inside! I don't know what it is! Rose's story, Harold Saxon, family… something is coming, and everything is going to change. And it's all connected!"

She hit _stop_ when she realised she'd begun whining and yelling. She decided not to continue her narrative tonight because she was sounding like a nutter. She saved her file and went home, for the first time in a while, with no work under her arm, to inflict upon herself in the wee hours.


	14. Chapter 14

FOURTEEN

About a week later, a call came in the middle of the night. She had made a conscious decision to cut down on the amount of work she brought home, so all she'd done that night over dinner were some budget accountability forms, which had taken twenty minutes. And she'd got in a good solid forty-five minutes of crap late-night television before retiring and being rudely awakened.

The attorneys from the Malcolm Sairo Law Firm were coming after them, and the BBC was trying to avoid the lawsuit. The secretary to the psychiatric directors had apologised for interrupting her sleep, but had said that they had been up late trying to find a way to avoid having this meeting, but had been unable. They were letting her know as soon as they could. The secretary told her, "Dress like you mean business," and report to the conference room at 8 a.m., along with the the day nurse who shares care of the Ward 40 patient.

However, being told to stay calm was a guaranteed way to make most people panic and/or go insane with rage, so she did not relay the sentiment to Jack when she called him and jostled him out of his sleep. Actually, she was fairly sure that Jack didn't have a "panic" mode, so she was really doing this to keep _herself _calm. She told him in a very even tone what to do and where to be and when, and then turned off her phone. The call had taken all of thirty seconds.

Then she tried to go back to sleep, since she knew she would need all of her strength.

But she couldn't sleep. She reasoned that she'd be calmer tomorrow anyway, if she was tired (which made little sense to her as a doctor, but as a human being, it sounded good... less energy meant less anger, right?). She got up and searched the internet for information on the Minister of Defence, Harold Saxon.

She found nothing particularly useful or interesting on his official government website, other than the fact that he had a military background, as well as some legal training, and was seriously considering a run for Prime Minister this year. She had known all of that already. What's more, before last week, she would have been all right with Harold Saxon as Prime Minister – she'd liked his politics. But that was before he became involved, it seemed, in taking her patient away from her under some crap pretence about humanitarian standards.

So, she tried that bastion of reliable information, Wikipedia. It rarely had the "dirt," but it sometimes displayed personal details that were not necessarily considered pertinent for government websites. Saxon grew up in a London suburb, a football and rugby champ at school and at Oxford, wrote a novel based on his experiences in the middle east, spoke four languages fluently, and married socialite Lucy Pendleton eighteen months ago.

And then…

"Oh, my God," Martha muttered aloud, reading Saxon's personal details. "No fucking way."

* * *

><p>Martha was, as she had been told to do, dressed like she meant business – and she did mean business. She was wearing a burgundy blazer with black dress trousers and stilletto heels. She had tried to put her hair up in an efficient bun, but her hands shook, and it wouldn't stay, so she wore her hair down. Jack was dressed in navy blue trousers and a light blue dress shirt. It was interesting to see - had never seen him wearing anything other than his BBC-issue white uniform.<p>

"You look as tired as I feel," she told him, smiling with no gusto.

"Thanks," he chuckled, patting her on the shoulder. "Are you ready for this?"

"What do you think?"

Martha and Jack entered the conference room, which was already full of people. She recognised the directors and their secretary, as well as Mr. Yana and Miss Chantho. Other men and women scowling in suits sat on their side of the table, and Martha assumed that they were yet more lawyers, come to bully them into submission.

"Martha Jones?" a man asked, walking up on her right side. He was middle-aged, had a friendly enough face, though unremarkable.

"Yes?"

"My name is Arthur Winters," he said, shaking her hand. "I'm legal counsel for the BBC. It's very nice to meet you."

She couldn't help but look behind him to see what army he'd brought with him. She was disappointed, but not surprised, to find that he was here alone. She looked at him, and he winked at her. This was not reassuring. She was a psychiatrist, an excellent judge of character (an expert, in fact, almost by definition), and she had _no_ faith in this man. She tried to hide it, though she wasn't sure she succeeded.

They all sat down.

"All right, Mr. Yana, what are Mr. Saxon's terms?" Winters asked gruffly, grandstanding.

"The patient shall be released from this horrific lock-and-key situation, and shall be treated on an outpatient basis at another approved facility," replied Yana.

"That is an extremely bad idea. The Bernard Briscoe Clinic does not treat outpatients for a reason," Winters informed him. "They take on cases that do not qualify for outpatient care, due to their extreme nature." He looked at Martha for help.

"My patient is, to date, impenetrably delusional," she said calmly enough even to surprise herself. "His delusion is such that he does not, and cannot function in polite society. In fact, I can demonstrate through stacks of research that support the fact that he could be a danger to himself or others, were he not under constant supervision by trained professionals."

"He is docile," Yana said silkily. "You yourself attest to this in your patient narratives. Docile, even when you are messing with his mind and experimenting on him."

Martha looked at her directors pleadingly. _They have given these lawyers access to my narratives? They have violated the oath that I took to patient confidentiality for me._

"He is not violent," Martha corrected. "That doesn't mean that he's not a danger to himself or others."

"Are you afraid that he might actually try to travel through time and space, thereby blowing up the neighbourhood?" Yana asked, like a grandfather talking to a four-year-old.

Martha opened her mouth to hurl back at him, but was interrupted.

"Mr. Yana, if you could keep a civil tone, it would be much appreciated," Winters warned. "This isn't the schoolyard."

"Perhaps we should postpone this meeting until we have a mediator," suggested one of the directors.

"No need, sir. There is nothing to mediate, no compromise to be made. Those are the terms," Yana said stubbornly. He looked at the directors. "Release the patient to Mr. Saxon's custody, or suffer the consequences."

"No deal," Winters said. "That would be a clear violation of medical ethics."

"Mr. Winters, we have a list of violations here, as long as my arm," Miss Chantho said. She looked at Martha uneasily. "This facility and its staff are already guilty of many _clear violations of medical ethics."_

"Either the patient is released," Yana added. "Or we sue for custody, and then have the CPS charge you with all of those anti-humanitarian violations, which would then close down the entire facility. I'm sure there's plenty of dirt pertaining to other patients who have been victimised by your practises."

"Victimised?" Jack couldn't help but ask. "Seriously?"

"These so-called anti-humanitarian violations are cited from statutes, some of which are outdated, and some of which only apply to hospitals that are _not_ psychiatric facilities," Winters replied, thumbing through a packet of information. "It's a joke, Yana, and you know it."

One of the stuffy directors stepped forward. "Mr. Yana, would you mind taking your team out into the corridor for a moment or two? I feel I need to discuss a few things with my own team, in private."

Yana nodded and all of the sharks smugly left the room. The director said, "Arthur, if _they_ can manipulate the facts to make it look like we're committing anti-humanitarian violations, then certainly the CPS can as well."

"Stanley, they're quoting laws that have been amended, statutes that are are archaic and weren't based upon sound medical research in the first place," Winters told him. "We can prove…"

"Really? You can prove? So can they, and they'll do it louder. This is the Malcolm Sairo Firm we're dealing with. And there are eight of them, and one of you. Eight of them here today; who knows how many more young go-getters Saxon's got on the case who _aren't _here today? They are like piranhas, Arthur. You know they will eat you alive."

"So what are you saying?" Martha screeched, getting to her feet.

"I'm saying we have no recourse," the director told her. "We can't win."

"No!" she shouted. "You can't do this!"

"Martha…" Jack said softly, trying to get her to sit down.

"He will _languish_ outside this facility," she said. "He needs _constant_ supervision! He needs to be in the Tardis!"

Jack cleared his throat and said softly, very close to her ear, "Careful, you're starting not to sound like a doctor."

"They are crooked, Stanley," Winters pointed out.

"That's exactly my point! They're crooked as the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and they outnumber us eight to one, at least."

"Sir…" Martha began again.

"We're basically fighting the government now, Dr. Jones. One doctor, one nurse, two bureaucrats and one lawyer versus the Minister of Defence, the entire CPS and a law firm full of velociraptors. I cannot afford to have my facility shut down."

"You'll find another job," she protested. "You don't own it! It's not your financial interest! Fight this! Fight for what's best for the patient!"

He sighed. "I appreciate your idealism, but what you just said is correct. This is not my financial interest, I would not be the one paying the legal fees nor bearing the brunt of the loss when the clinic is closed. I can assure you, the owner will tell me not to fight it. Or at leat her grandson-in-law will. If they won't pay to fight it, then we can't fight it."

"Oh my God," she sighed, holding back tears. "I can't believe this."

"Dr. Jones, you're going to have to let him go," said the director.

Jack reached out and rubbed Martha's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered to her.

"Harold Saxon just wants to use him," Martha said.

"Unless we can prove that Mr. Saxon intends to do him physical harm, there's nothing we can do about that."

Martha shook her head, staring at the director's shoes.

"Stanley, are you sure about this?" Winters asked.

The director looked at his co-director, who nodded.

"Mr. Harkness," said the director. "Please fetch the patient."

Jack didn't say anything, he just left the room obediently.

The director opened the door. "Mr. Yana, we've come to an agreement amongst ourselves."

* * *

><p>Martha and Jack stood outside the conference room, waiting. The lawyers were hammering out the final details (actually, Yana was hammering, Winters was agreeing), and custodial contracts were being drawn up. The patient was being told of what was about to happen, and the "experts" thought it best that Martha not be present for this. Though Martha and Jack both knew that he wasn't entirely capable of understanding the real-wold consequences. Saxon would be here in a few minutes to collect him.<p>

"I feel like I've been punched in the gut," she told him, softly so no-one else could hear.

"Is that because you lost this fight," asked Jack. "Or because you're in love?"

She looked up at him. The sadness in her eyes was palpable, and it surprised even Jack. "I'm feeling _loss_, Jack. Plain and simple."

"I'm sorry," he said. "Are you going to get your own lawyer?"

"I don't know," she told him. "I might consult with someone, but I guess they're right when they say we're outnumbered by a bunch of manipulative prats with unlimited resources."

"You're not going to fight?"

"I said, I don't know. I wouldn't really know where to begin, if the BBC isn't on my side."

"Well, did you ever figure out what Saxon wants with him?"

"Yeah."

"What?"

Just then, the conference room door opened. The directors' secretary stuck her head out. "Mr. Harkness?"

"Yes?"

"Can we see you, please?"

Jack was gone for about five minutes, and Martha paced back and forth. Then the door opened again, and she could hear a bunch of voices. The meeting was over.

The patient was the first person to emerge. He made a beeline for Martha, he took both her hands and looked in her eyes, sadly. Tears streaked her face. All he could do was sigh. Martha glanced at Jack, but he wouldn't meet her eyes.

"Come on, Doctor," one of the directors said. "Time to go."

They took him by the arm and began to tug gently, but he wouldn't let go of Martha.

Suddenly he leaned forward and whispered in her ear. He spoke for a few moments...

What he said shocked her to her very core. Her internal organs felt as if they had leapt into her throat.

He said he had the answer to overruling Harold Saxon, and everyone else, but that wasn't all! Her heart began to beat even faster and harder than it had been. When he pulled away from her and looked at her meaningfully, she gazed back with surprised, wide eyes. She could not speak.

The director tugged again. The patient backed away from Martha, never wavering in his expression. A procession of professionals escorted him out the front doors, a sea of navy blue suits separating her from her favourite patient ever, and, she admitted to herself, the man she loved.

Jack approached her from her right. He took her hand and kissed her cheek. "See you later, okay? I hope."

"What? Wait, where are you going?"

"I'm going to go be his full-time nurse. It's part of the settlement."

Her jaw dropped. "How could you do that?"

"I didn't have a choice! You have someone you love to protect," he said, glancing in the patient's direction. "And so do I. My hands are tied. I swear I wouldn't do this otherwise."

"Jack!"

"I'm sorry, Martha. I have to go," he said, giving her a hug. He whispered to her, "Find a way."

And then he was gone, along with the patient and the entourage of businessmen and lawyers, leaving Martha standing in the corridor to weep.

After a minute or so, two people came through the secure door, and Martha turned away to wipe her tears. She didn't need strangers seeing her this way.

When she turned around again, she saw the formidable, handsome, infuriating face of Harold Saxon, and his blonde trophy wife.

"Dr. Martha Jones, I presume?" he said.

"Mr. and Mrs. Saxon."

"We just wanted to come in and meet you," he told her.

Lucy reached forward for a handshake, asserting, "Such a pleasure," but Martha stood stoic. She wanted nothing to do with these people just now. Though she did note how Lucy seemed to be behaving as though she understood absolutely nothing of what was happening.

"This isn't over," Martha informed them.

Saxon sucked in air through his teeth and squinted. "I think it is, Dr. Jones."

"Truth will prevail, Mr. Saxon."

"I agree. And the truth is, in the eyes of the law, blood is thicker than some hack doctor who thinks she can save the world by turning over patients."

"It's not about turning over patients," she let him know. "He's not just a patient to me, he's…"

"Whatever you're about to say, save it. He's my brother, so I win."


	15. Chapter 15

**I don't think this is the most exciting thing I've ever written, but it's a means to an end. It's meant to depict the business of misery. Sigh - poor Martha.**

* * *

><p><span>FIFTEEN<span>

Martha Jones had never felt so despondent or alone. She felt like she was floating in the middle of an ocean on an inflatable tube, waiting for a helicopter to happen by. She had never been idle in her life, never _not_ had a job or a class or a patient to worry about during the day. And since she'd gone to work at the BBC, her social life had taken a powder. In the past, she'd been able to balance a day job with a boyfriend, an occasional girls' night out and Sunday family dinners. But the Tenth Patient in the Tardis had taken up all of her time of late, and occupied most of her spare mental space. She hadn't had a boyfriend in eight months, hadn't seen her friends since early spring, and had only interacted with her sister in Spain.

But now, even the BBC was history for her. Without her special "delusional" patient, there was no work for her, so they had taken her security badge and dismissed her with apologies. She was told that the facility would wait for a while before bringing in a new patient to the Tardis, and assured that she'd be contacted when and if that happened, and/or if another position came up in the BBC somewhere.

But she didn't really believe them, and she reckoned it was just as well, given her circumstances. But it had happened quickly, before Martha had even had the wherewithal to make the best of her position. The task her patient had given her would be more difficult without access to the BBC. At least the first phase, as she saw it.

Just after Saxon had left with that smug smile and that Stepford wife of his, Martha had written down word-for-word everything she could remember of what the patient had said to her, and she had shoved it in her pocket, not included it as a narrative. It was the last thing she chould manage before her entire impetus crumbled. She had spent a week depressed and oversleeping. She had ignored all phone calls, voice mails, text messages and e-mails. During that week, she changed out of her pyjamas only three times, twice to shower, and once to go to the market, since she had no desire to starve to death. Though, as a doctor, she was vaguely aware that she might die from a cholestorol-induced heart attack or diabetic shock, if she didn't quit trying to subsist on grape soda, potato crisps and chocolate biscuits.

Finally, after seven days, she felt ever-so-slightly better, so she forced herself to get up, open the blinds, put on human clothing and go _somewhere. _She knew that what she _should _do was go back to the market and re-stock the fridge with greens and fruits and yogurt and _diet _soda. But she didn't feel like it yet. She contemplated writing herself a prescription for Zoloft to lift her out of this funk, but she knew that in time, this too would pass. Besides, she was afraid that if the depression lifted too quickly, she would lose her motivation to do what her patient had asked.

So she took her personallaptop and went to a coffee shop. She answered her e-mails, answered all of her voice mails via e-mail and texted back all of the people who had texted her during her week of radio silence.

Jack had tried to get through to her during that week, as had Joan Redfern. Both of them had tried the phone, and then e-mail. Joan was just checking up on her, but Jack's e-mail seemed just a bit desperate.

She quickly answered Joan with a polite _thanks, I'll be fine, please keep in touch,_ then opened Jack's e-mail.

"_Martha – I don't know if you got my message a couple days ago, but you didn't return my call so I'm writing. Please answer – I need to know if you're angry with me for what you must perceive as kowtowing to Saxon and his lawyers. I wish I could explain. Though I am mortified by my actions, and am miserable in this situation, I want you to understand that I do not lack integrity. This actually has nothing to do with my own integrity. It has to do with Saxon's._

"_And I need to know that you're all right. I need to know that someone is. Because things here are weird weird weird. I know this is the last thing you want to hear, but your patient is not doing well. I'm with him pretty much all day, but there are no adventures, there's no drama. He still answers to 'Doctor', and does not answer to his given name that Saxon calls him, but he doesn't travel or fight anymore. He just sits, semi-catatonic, and stares out the window. The only thing he talks about is you, and how you will rescue us both. I don't know what he said to you as he was leaving the BBC, but he seems to think you are the answer to all of our problems. I'm not writing this to put pressure on you, but… maybe you could find a way to get in to see him. It might help perk him up a little – just a thought. Anyway, please get back to me soon so I know you're okay… and that _we _are okay. Love, Jack."_

Martha got ready to reply to this e-mail, resisting the urge to gush about everything and anything she'd felt or thought over the past week.

"_Hi Jack. Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner – didn't mean to make you worry. I'm not angry with you. Saxon steamrolled over all of us. Obviously, I don't understand what happened with you, why you did what you did, but I do know that you must have your reasons. You said you're protecting someone – maybe someday we can discuss it._

"_Truth is, I'm really not okay. Even more worrying, it doesn't surprise me or distress me further to hear that my patient is in a poor state. Perhaps I feel like there's no lower I can sink, and no bad news can sway me. I've spent the last week of my life in very much the same state as you describe him. I've been semi-catatonic myself, in an almost crippling depression; it's a huge effort just to make my fingers move over the keyboard. I've been eating junk food and crying, sleeping and wearing the same pyjamas for nigh on seven days. So, I have to say, I don't think that a visit from me would help either one of us. Seeing me would only remind him further of the bind that he's in, and I am certain that I wouldn't be able to refrain from crying if I saw him again._

"_And you are right – he said something fairly profound to me as he was being taken from the BBC. It was a huge shock to hear, and it changes the game completely. And more importantly, it was something that might help me 'rescue' you both. But I can't discuss it right now, for several reasons. I don't even fully understand it, or know where to begin. I reckon I just need to start by getting to a state where I can talk to people without bursting into tears. But rest assured, I will not give up, and I will be in touch. Please take care of him. Love, Martha."_

* * *

><p>The following day, the telephone rang, early in the morning. It was seven a.m. and Martha wasn't out of bed yet. She frankly hadn't been sure what she would do with her day when she'd gone to sleep, so she'd fallen into her old habit of falling asleep indefinitely, escaping into dreams, and not setting an alarm.<p>

"Hello?" she croaked.

"Martha. How are you?"

There was a pause while Martha's sleepy brain caught up. "Sarah Jane?"

"Yes. I heard about what happened."

Martha sighed. "Yep. On the bright side, I now have loads of free time."

"Sardonic humour," Sarah Jane said. "Not the best coping mechanism."

"Oh, it's not the best in my repertoire by far," Martha said. "I've also got hypersomnia, saturated fat addiction and communicative avoidance."

"There it is again."

"Well, sorry. Why don't you tell me how you'd like me to behave?"

Sarah Jane paused. "Sorry. I didn't call to scold you – I didn't mean to do that to you."

"Then why did you?"

"Just to see how you are. Clearly, not well."

"Well, better than two days ago. I'm getting better."

"What are you doing for yourself? Thinking about a new job?"

"No," admitted Martha. "I'm not willing to go there yet."

"Martha…"

"I've got some money saved. I'll be okay for a few months, if I'm frugal." It was the truth. Being able to save money was one of the nicer by-products of working a lot and having no social life.

"It's not good for you to do nothing. You've lost your job and someone you love all in one go."

"I'm not going to be doing nothing. I have a…"

Sarah Jane waited. Finally, "What?"

"I have a task. A project."

"What kind?"

"Let me ask you something, Sarah Jane," Martha said. "Did any of your patients, any one of the three that you worked with, especially the fourth one, show any signs whatsoever of lucidity? Of being aware of his surroundings? Even for ten seconds? Just a short blip of time, when you thought _oh my God, he doesn't belong here?_"

There was a pause. "Why do you ask?"

The pause was long enough to let Martha know that the answer was _yes,_ that Sarah Jane, at some point, had experienced what Martha had experienced.

"Meh, it's a long story," Martha reported, dismissing her. Then, she began speaking in a different vein, hoping it would spur Sarah Jane. "I'll tell you, though. I'll miss the patient, sure, but I won't miss that place. It does something to you, you know? Like it gets in your head."

"Hm," said the woman on the other end. "I suppose."

"It's like the forces of the universe really do reside in that Tardis, and they make you see things and dream about stuff, and talk to yourself… it's like the delusion is contagious."

Sarah Jane answered, carefully. "For a certain type of doctor, perhaps."

"Yeah," said Martha, trying to remain slightly nutty, whimsical, trying not to let Sarah Jane know that she was being pumped for information. "Glad to be away from that."

"Martha, do you love him still?" Sarah Jane asked, after a beat.

"What?"

"Are you in love with your patient? I mean, today, right this moment?"

Martha snapped back to reality. "Yeah, I am. You know I am."

"And it hasn't faded since he left you?"

"No, if anything it's…"

"It's got stronger."

"Yeah," Martha admitted.

"Good," Sarah Jane said.

"Good?"

"Yes. Carry on with your project, Martha. Love gives us a reason to go on, and so does work."

Sarah Jane had drastically changed her tune. Now Martha had the feeling that Sarah Jane was trying to manipulate _her_. She now knew that she'd given away a lot by asking the questions she'd asked, and musing contrivedly over the effects of the Tardis.

"Why would you say that?" asked Martha.

"It will come to you in time," Sarah Jane said. "Just… don't give up on yourself, or on him. He needs you, okay?"

"Okay," Martha said, confused.

"No other doctor had been able to come through for him, but you have a shot at it."

There it was again, another hint at Rose Tyler. The only other doctor who had worked full-time with the Tenth Patient was her.

She made some excuse and she and Sarah Jane ended the call. Then she dialled the BBC, since she no longer had the BBC-issued mobile phone with access to direct lines.

"Joan Redfern, please. This is Martha Jones."

When Joan picked up, she seemed glad to hear from Martha. "Hi, sweetheart, how are you holding up?"

"Fine, thank you for asking, and thanks for the messages," Martha said. "But Joan, listen, I need you to do me a favour."

"Like what?"

"I'm sorry, I wouldn't ask, but… I've got to finish my work with my patient. It was left unfinished, and… I _do not _leave things unfinished."

"What do you need, Dr. Jones? I'll do my best, but…"

"I need to speak to Tim Latimer, and I need all of the narratives from Rose Tyler."

There was a silence. "You want me to sneak you in to talk to a restricted patient, and then steal files?"

Martha hadn't thought of it that way. "Well, no, don't steal. Check them out. And try to get me clearance to see Tim."

"The Tardis file room has its own terminal and access codes," she told Martha. "With me gone from that wing, I don't have access anymore. And I certainly don't have the authority to let you in to see Tim. Besides, his doctor has restricted anyone from discussing the Doctor with him."

"Please try, Joan," Martha begged. "I know it's a lot to ask, but… I heard from Jack Harkness yesterday. The patient is catatonic. He says he just sits there staring out the window and won't speak. He keeps saying that I'll rescue him. And I have to try."

"How will this help?"

"It just will. You have to trust me."

"He's in his brother's care. It will be very, very difficult to overrule family concerns."

"I know, but this has nothing to do with the brother. I can't really discuss it, but... Have you ever seen me do anything to make you believe that my patient's safety and health are not my top priority?"

"No, admittedly not." Joan sighed heavily. "I'll put in a good word for you, Dr. Jones, but no promises."

"They don't hate me there, do they?"

"No, but now you're technically an outsider, and you've lost your clearance. And these people _love _to pontificate over protocol, as you know."

"Eugh. I didn't become a doctor just so I could be a bureaucrat."

Joan chuckled bitterly. "Welcome to Earth, Dr. Jones."

* * *

><p>Martha spent the day at the market, and having lunch with her sister, then trying to research Rose Tyler on the internet. She found a picture of her, a PDF copy of her thesis and some vague information about her working at the BBC, but nothing else. There was no indication as to where she'd gone after leaving… she had effectively disappeared. Martha hadn't really <em>wanted <em>to go and meet Rose, but she'd considered the possibility. But if she couldn't be found, then her narratives were Martha's only hope.

At six p.m., she fixed herself a salad for dinner and turned on the television. The roughage felt good to her junk-food-addled stomach. A news report on the upcoming election came on.

It made Martha shake with rage. As soon as the report was over, the phone rang. It was Joan.

"I don't know how it will help, but I'll have those files for you tomorrow," she promised.

Martha almost cried with gratitude."


	16. Chapter 16

SIXTEEN

Around noon the following day, Joan Redfern turned up on Martha's doorstep, looking guilty.

"Are you all right?" Martha wanted to know.

Joan shuddered. "I feel awful. I've never stolen anything in my life, let alone from an employer. And let alone patient materials." She extracted a CD from her handbag and gave it to Martha. "Besides, all I could get was this, before someone caught me. Dr. Wright saw me looking at the Tardis files, and wanted to know what I was doing, then watched me… luckily this was already in my hand, so I slipped it under my uniform."

"I'll take anything I can get," Martha told her with an appreciative smile. "Do you know when this recording was made?"

"You said you'd left off in May, 2005, so I picked up something from May. I hope it's not one that you've already heard. I'll try again for you as soon as I can," Joan assured her. "And… maybe I can get you clearance to see Tim, but I'll have to wait a little while before I can broach the subject. Until after Dr. Wright forgets about today."

"Thank you, Joan," Martha said, squeezing the nurse's hand. "I really, really appreciate this. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?"

"I've only got a little while, I'm on my lunch break…"

"I'll whip up some sandwiches," Martha promised, pressing her fingers against Joan's shoulder blades, leading her inside.

"All right," Joan said, a bit uncomfortable.

"Lovely. I could really use someone to talk to right now," Martha said, feeling a little pathetic. She missed her patient, she missed Jack, and she missed Sarah Jane. Joan felt like a lifeline to her.

"Of course you could," Joan said, patting the younger woman on the arm. She tried to be sympathetic without patronising. Martha wasn't her direct superior anymore, but she was still a doctor, an adult (in spite of how Joan felt about the young upstarts sometimes), and she was in a very bad place, Joan could see.

They went into the kitchen and Martha put the kettle on, then extracted two mugs and a box of teabags from the cabinet. She moved her laptop out of the way, and gestured for Joan to take a seat at the breakfast bar. She turned her back once again and dug into the fridge.

"Can you tell me now what's going on?" Joan asked, after a moment.

"I'm sorry, I can't," Martha said with a little smile. She emerged from the fridge with an armload of mayonnaise, cheese, lettuce and pickles. "Do you like tunafish?"

"Yes, thanks. Why can't you tell me?"

"I'm afraid you'd have me committed," Martha chuckled, pulling slices of bread from a plastic bag.

Joan then turned a bit sombre. "I assume you saw that report last night, the one on Saxon."

"Yeah," Martha sighed, beginning the process of opening cans of tuna and mixing it with mayonnaise.

"I wasn't going to do this, but that changed my mind."

"I figured."

After a pause, Joan asked, "What kind of self-righteous bastard uses his mentally ill brother to get himself a bid for PM?"

"I think you just answered your own question," Martha said.

"I mean, I understand trying to take a humanistic angle…"

"I choose to think that he's going to shoot himself in the foot," Martha shrugged. "Eventually the story will get out. He used a team of big, bad, scary lawyers to get his very sick brother extracted from a fully-equipped psychiatric facility, and threatened people to get what he wanted… people will see what he's up to."

"I wish I had your optimism, Dr. Jones," Joan said. The kettle began to whistle, and she came round to pour the water. "I hope you're right. But you know, it's all about the spin. If the right story gets told, then yes, they will see that he's trotting his family drama out for political gain, and putting on a compassionate clown face for the media. But if the wrong kind of people get hold of it…"

"…then they'll think he rescued his brother from an unsafe institution and is now caring for him at home, at his own personal expense," Martha finished, with another big sigh.

"Which is, let's face it, much more likely," said Joan. "Do you have milk and sugar?"

"Yeah – check the fridge. Sugar should be in the cabinet behind me, second from the left," Martha answered. "We'll just have to make sure that the right people tell the story."

There was a pause while the two women locked eyes meaningfully. Suddenly Joan took in a big breath. "Oh no," she said, kicking the refrigerator door closed behind her. "Count me out, Dr. Jones."

"Please?" Martha said. "You're the only one…"

"It's one thing to steal clandestine items from a file room and deliver them to a doctor – I might get a reprimand for that. But going on television and airing out the dirty laundry of one of our most important patients? I might as well hand in my nursing licence now." Without looking at Martha, she sat back down and began to fiddle with her teabag, impatiently waiting for it to steep.

"But you could convince the directors to come forward," Martha all but whined. "Pickles?"

"Yes, please. And if the directors couldn't stand up to Harold Saxon in their own bloody conference room, Dr. Jones, what makes you think they can do it on the national stage?"

Martha thought about it as she topped each sandwich with a finishing slice of bread. She cut them in half. "Then, we'll leave Harold Saxon out of it." A glint appeared in her eye.

"How? He's inextricably a part of the story!"

Martha just stared at the sandwiches. "No… it's not even _about_ Harold Saxon."

"What is it about, Martha?" Joan asked, slipping, accidentally using the doctor's first name in her confusion. "You're starting to worry me. You're going to get your licence revoked!"

"It's about the Doctor."

"You mean the patient?"

Martha's eyes shifted to Joan's. They were deep and black, like bottomless pools. "No."

Joan caught a shiver. This time, she used the first name on purpose. "Martha, the Doctor is not real."

Martha continued to stare at her for a long moment.

Joan felt dread come over her.

At last, Martha asked, "Potato crisps or dried apricots?"

* * *

><p>"It's 14 May, 2005, and this is Dr. Rose Tyler. The time is, er, twenty-forty-two. The subject of the Doctor's lonely lot in life came up again today. Home planet gone, no family… my first instinct was to shut him down. Change the subject. I really do think it's better if there's no family involvement with the Tardis patient. Wow, I've said that so many times, the listener would be well within his or her rights to think that I'm trying to convince myself that I'm right."<p>

Martha smiled bitterly. She wondered if Rose had any idea how right she was?

Yet she was still infused with the certainty that _this was not about Harold Saxon_. He was a major roadblock, yes, but ultimately, he was unimportant. The patient – the Doctor – was what mattered.

She was certain that the Tardis was fully in her head now, and she embraced it. Everything had changed, and that was good, even if she had to keep it all secret for the time being.

She was also certain that she hadn't gone mad. Two months earlier, she would have been certain that she _had_, given how much the synchronicity of events had disturbed her. Hearing Sarah Jane's stories about the patients' families at a time when her own family was on her mind, and her patient's, it had felt like a warning. She now knew that it was a warning about Harold Saxon and the impact he'd have on her life – how he'd turn their whole world upside-down. The stories had got under her skin. Just like the idea of knowing her patient's name, and knowing more about his childhood life. It was all intertwined. She'd been fairly sure of it then, and she had absolutely no question now. It was all related, like a big web, like the cause-and-effect she'd learned from the episode with Sally Sparrow, and the destruction across worlds she'd learned from the Daleks. Time and the universe – nothing was singular anymore.

But she was still missing something. Something was knocking just below the surface of her understanding, she just had to find it, and work it out. But whatever it was, she understood without a doubt that Harold Saxon was just a blip. She didn't know where that understanding came from.

Not consciously, anyway. Unconsciously, she'd known for quite some time where all of this understanding came from.

Yes, Harold Saxon was a trifle, but he sure as hell could be used. And the miserable prat would deserve it.

The narrative continued. Martha marvelled at Rose's cool and detached tone, in spite of the highly emotional tale she was telling.

"But I didn't shut him down straight away, and… well, it was an interesting day. Disaster did not ensue, at least not the kind I was expecting, though I was looking for it. I decided to commiserate a bit, tell him about the death of my father. He died when I was a baby – he was killed by a hit-and-run driver, and bled to death all on his own in the street. So I never knew him, and it's always given me a sense of loneliness to think of him. Where my friends could all be daddy's little girl, I just had my mum, who was nice, but... And no-one deserves to die that way, all alone."

"Well, anyway, the patient asked me if I'd like to go back in time and hold my dad's hand as he dies. I found it extremely interesting that all this talk led to a sort of adventure with _my _family, instead of creating an inner struggle with memories of his own. I was relieved, given the past catastrophes that have arisen when family comes up, and different debacles with the Doctor's home planet and the other Time Lords... Anyway, I'm digressing. I decided to follow that train of thought, not to let my father die alone, just to see where it would lead us. I gave the Doctor some of the details of that day, including the date, and the fact that my father died on his way to some friends' wedding.

"And… I decided to see what would happen if I chose to save him. I chose to change history. The Doctor became very cross. He said that man was now alive in the world, who hadn't been before, and the whole balance of the universe was off now. He explained that these giant pterodactyl creatures, creatures who feed on time paradox energy, could now come to fruition and wreak havoc. He said that the Time Lords could have stopped it - another indication that my family has now replaced his, in his own mind. The creatures were able to penetrate the church (since we were at a wedding), and consumed most of the wedding guests, including the groom's father. And according to the Doctor, the creatures had popped up all over the world, and consumed most of humankind. And it was my fault, because I'd decided to save my father, which caused the paradox."

Martha was riveted to this story. She caught herself sitting with her mouth open, listening with avidity.

She sat up straight and licked her lips.

She herself recalled her own intrigue at how bringing up the subject of family had led to an adventure with the Lazarus monster and _her _family, and had not caused the Tenth Patient to delve into his own memories or personal disasters. Apparently, the Ninth Patient had had the same reaction, even though Rose's motives had been totally different from Martha's. Monsters claimed lives, but the Time Lords did not return – conspicuously so. And he'd been angry with Rose for her transgression, for apparently breaking the laws of time by saving her father, when the Doctor couldn't save his own people. It was absolutely fascinating, from a psychological standpoint. Hospital administration makes a decision for a patient's life, and the patient then uses the administrator's own life in retaliation. There was a kind of poetic brilliance about it.

"And then…" the narrative said. Rose took a long pause. Her detachment wouldn't let Martha know whether she was disturbed, or whether she was just thinking of the right words, but the pause caused Martha to lean forward with interest. "…the creatures consumed the Doctor."

"What?" Martha said aloud. She caught herself, and put her hand over her mouth.

"He seemed to die, right in front of me, which… oh, I hope I never have to see that happen again, although, history tells me… well, anyway, that's neither here nor there."

Finally, Rose's voice began to go a bit softer, to even waver a bit at the thought of having watched her patient die. Martha felt for her, knowing she'd have to deal with his _real_ death in a very short time.

"The creatures consumed the Doctor, and all seemed lost for the companion Rose Tyler, and for the world. I became trapped in the wrong time, the wrong world, really, and my father was still alive, so the paradox remained, and the only Time Lord left had been consumed by paradox monsters…

"As a psychiatrist, it taught me a lot about the inner workings of the patient's mind, how the Doctor views time and space and the laws governing our universe.

"But, just when I thought I understood how it worked, the Doctor seemed to come back to life, explaining that my father had chosen to save the world by dying, and that all of that time had been erased. He and I could remember, perhaps because we were at the epicentre of all the action, and the paradox, but…"

"Wow," Martha breathed. "It's like the Day That Never Was."

"Everyone else in the world forgot. It was like that adventure, the day when I knew my father, existed in a tangent all its own, in an alternative universe."

Martha backed up the CD, and listened to those words again. "…a tangent all its own, in an alternative universe."

She stopped listening then, and set about thinking. Trying to get your mind round the laws of time and space without the Doctor's help could be a trying task.

* * *

><p>Her patient, the Doctor, had given her a job. Part A was underway, as the CD case sitting next to her laptop would attest.<p>

But she was hatching part B no, which was her own plan. So she picked up the phone. She knew someday that having a sister who worked in PR would have its advantages.


	17. Chapter 17

**Hi all. Long-ish absence, sorry - been out of town and semi-internetless. **

**I hope you like this chapter. I'm a little vexed by it, to tell the truth. The middle part with Rose's narrative is what I'm happy with; the rest of it feels fragmented somehow. **

**So, be prepared for a lot of Martha/Tish banter, because I wanted to convey that what Martha is doing is a _process _which requires help, and a network of people. To do that, I wrote multiple scenes over multiple days...**

**Please enjoy! :-)**

* * *

><p><span>SEVENTEEN<span>

Martha didn't see Joan again for two weeks. She spent those weeks sitting at her computer, wracking her brain for memories, trying to relate to stories about a man she didn't know. Or at least, she hadn't known him when she'd read the original accounts.

She also spent time talking on the phone with her sister, Tish.

"You want me to… wait, are you okay?" Tish had asked, after Martha had explained what she'd like her sister to do.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Are you considering a career change?"

"What? No, no," Martha had answered. "This is all doctoring stuff."

"Well, it's weird."

"Given. But I promise, it's all totally in the spirit of... being a doctor."

There was a long pause. "Is this to do with that patient you fancy?"

Martha was defensive. Ever since she'd opened her mind up to certain ideas, she'd also fully embraced her feelings of real, though painful, unrequited love. It wasn't just a passing crush. "I don't just fancy him Tish, I… you know what? That's not the point."

"So, yes, it is about him."

"Yes. After a fashion."

"Are you going to lose your licence for this?"

"No. You'll see why when you read it. So, can you do it?"

Tish had sighed. "I can try, I guess. I know some people who owe me favours."

"Lovely."

"But it's a funny old business, this," Tish had said. "It's worse than show business in some ways. It's super-competitive…"

"I know, that's why I'm not going through the normal channels," Martha explained. "That's why I'm asking you to flout all that and pull some strings for me. Call in a few of those favours. And then I'll owe you."

"You owe me anyway!"

"I do not!" Martha protested. "When have I ever asked you for anything?"

"You're being juvenile," Tish pointed out coolly.

"Ugh. Just… I'll e-mail it to you. Just call me when you know something, okay?"

"Fine. Just be careful, Martha. I'm worried about you. It feels like you've..."

"I haven't gone over the edge."

"Yeah, well, it sure seems like you're teetering on it, and it's a windy day, Martha."

"I promise, I haven't lost control, and I'm in my right mind. Trust me when I say: this is all in the name of doing my sacred duty as a doctor whose patient needs her."

"Okay. I'll call you later."

Martha had known that Tish was a loving sister, but she also had known that Tish relished a good drama, and that was at least part of the reason why she had agreed to help. Her various jobs in public relations had afforded her a network of friends and acquaintances who were _sort of_ in the public eye, or at least who had access to it.

And Tish didn't disappoint. A day later, Tish called with the news that friend from a mid-range women's publication, who owed Tish a favour (of course), had agreed to take on Martha's request. She promised that the story would run in the August issue if she could sneak it in after the final approval, but before it went to press.

But she could make no promises for any future issues, so after the agreement was made, Martha went back to her computer to continue writing, and Tish went back to her rolodex for contacts.

* * *

><p>A few days on, Martha was sitting with her eyes shut, legs crossed Zen-style on the sofa, laptop on the coffee table in front of her. She was trying to picture the words on the page, the images that had been so embroiled in her mind, before Harold Saxon, before Rodina-Krev, even before Diagoras and Daleks. She tried to make them come alive so that she could give them an evocative outing.<p>

She was startled by the doorbell. It was Joan, unannounced, with a few more CD's for her. She made some excuse as to why she needed to leave – Martha knew that she'd made Joan nervous the last time she'd been round. She reckoned it was fine if Joan just wanted to come and go – all the better for Martha's creative process.

As she was waving goodbye to Joan, her mobile phone rang and startled her again.

It was Tish. "I've got someone who'll print part two, after part one goes out. I gave him part one and he liked it, so he said he'd give it a go."

"Brilliant!" exclaimed Martha. "Who is he?"

"He's one of the junior editors for _Fantasy Week, _you know, the geek genre magazine? And he can get it into the issue for 10th August. But he'll need to have it by Friday. Can you do it that soon?"

"That was quick," Martha commented. "Blimey, how many journalists owe you favours?"

"Oh, shut up and answer the question," Tish scolded. "I'm doing this out of the kindness of my heart, you know. And I've been kind enough not to ask any more questions about your bizarre little foray into the world of literature."

"I know. I appreciate it. Yes, I can have it by Friday. Will you see if you can find anyone else who will also take part two?"

Tish sighed. "I knew you'd say that."

"Please?"

"I'll give it my level best, but no promises."

* * *

><p>By dinner time, Martha found that she had a fairly fierce case of writer's block. So she grilled a piece of fish, microwaved some risotto and green beans and sat in her tiny garden with a glass of wine and her laptop. She took her mind off her newly-found hobby as a short story writer, and went back to being a doctor, and an investigative caretaker.<p>

"Today is 22 May, 2005, this is Rose Tyler, it's sometime in the wee hours of the morning… looks like about twenty minutes past three. A new nurse, Jack Harkness, started at the BBC today, and the patient seems to have taken to him a lot better than he took to the other two he's had on the day shift. He seems to like Jack, and doesn't seem to want to rail against him as much as Mickey and Adam. It might help that Jack is a former United States Air Force Captain, it's an undertaking that I would think the Doctor could respect, even though he seems to think that Captain Jack is from the 52nd century. This is very good news. He's getting to be a handful for me to care for on my own, especially when he won't allow anyone to give him his medication, except for me. Fortunately, Jack didn't have any issues.

"It's been continually interesting to see the effect that external stimuli have on his delusion, and today especially! I've been out with a cold for the past few days, and I told him so, and apologised for not being with him for far too long. He seemed lost, like a child, the way he looked at me. Note to self: don't get sick again. Also, a few days ago, he mentioned World War II to one of the orderlies, who brought him a documentary to watch, on the London Blitz. So, today he mentioned something about viral infections, and the Blitz, and described a child in a gas mask. Somehow, the child in the gas mask represented a virus, or rather he carried a virus, and an epedemic of people in gas masks began. I'll repeat that: an _epidemic_ of people in _gas masks._

"Now, as for this part of the delusion, as a psychiatrist, I'm wondering if… no, it seems a bit silly."

Martha waited for the voice to continue. Rose took a longer-than-usual pause, as if to contemplate whether to continue speaking. It made Martha very, very keen to hear Rose's thoughts on this gas mask business, because frankly, she was wondering whether she and Rose were having the same instinct on that front.

"Come on, Rose," Martha encouraged. "Say it! You're a doctor, you're clever – you know what you're seeing."

Finally, Rose's voice resumed, after a long, laboured sigh.

"Okay, I'll say it. The patient is imagining a gas mask, which is meant as a device to protect the wearer from harm. It filters the bad elements in the air, germs, poisons, whatever, and allows the wearer to breathe cleanly. But the patient's delusion featured a gas mask that, in fact, _became the bad element in the air_, or rather, the gas mask was the malady. Where any other malady could be avoided using the gas mask, what is one to do when the solution becomes the problem?

"It makes me wonder whether this delusion is a manifestation of his feelings of futility. After having read and listened to the narratives from the Tardis Ward, I do have some sense that despite the overlying persona of the Doctor, there is an underlying persona that is totally unique to each man. _This_ man, _this_ patient has always had cynical underpinnings, and a bit less of the heroic, grandiose, optimistic outlook of the historical Doctor. This was evident when we made the decision to cut out his family, and the Doctor killed off his entire planet, rather than accommodating this condition with some sort of non-violent mechanism.

"Anyway, I'm digressing. What if this patient thinks the Tardis Ward, his treatment on the whole, is futile? It's meant to protect him from harm. It's meant to help him get better, to filter out the bad stuff, to keep him away from the world which could upset his delusion, and vice versa. What if he thinks that the treatment, like the gas mask, is actually the thing that's wrong?"

"Yes!" Martha shouted. "Oh, Rose. I knew I could count on you!" She grabbed her glass of wine and began pacing back and forth on the balcony as she continued to listen.

"The gas mask looks like a good thing. It's a shield from the carcinogens from the bombs in the Blitz. But anyone who wears it is afflicted, not just because of the bad stuff in the air, but because the mask keeps you from… what?"

"Rose, Rose, Rose!" Martha shouted. "You are so close!"

Rose's musings took on an air of thinking aloud, like a stream of consciousness.

"It's a barrier to the world. It's a filter on reality. It's a _barrier_ between the person and _reality."_

Martha almost wept.

Rose took a deep breath, and her slightly more businesslike tone returned.

"Likewise, the Tardis and his mental health treatment look like a good thing. It's a shield . But anyone who is in the Tardis is afflicted, and not just because of the bad stuff that already is in their heads, but because the treatment keeps him from… reality."

Martha groaned with relief. She downed the rest of her wine, and threw herself into her chair. She couldn't stop smiling.

_I'm not crazy,_ she thought.

Rose cleared her throat and went on.

"Of course, the patient's reality is running about out in the world and raving like a lunatic, so perhaps this isn't such a bad thing, even if the delusion manifests as a fairly dark story about an ugly contagious disease. It has come to my attention more than once that the patient doesn't necessarily _love_ being here…"

She completely regained her clinical, no-nonsense tone, and she went on to discuss the further implications of the gas mask, particularly because the child in the mask is obsessed with finding his mother. This obsession was part of the affliction which becomes contagious, along with the gas mask itself. Rose mused on the significance of last week's father-centric episode, and this particularly mother-centric story, and whether the fact that the patient viewed wanting to be with one's mother as an affliction indicated that separation from family was having a detrimental effect on him.

She also described some of the patient's interactions with Jack, though she did not particularly speak of her own feelings on Jack. She didn't seem to have a problem with him, but she also didn't seem overly attached to him, or glad to be working with him.

Martha got the sense from this narrative that Rose was beginning to feel more and more isolated. Martha could relate. Especially to the revelation that the Tardis and the treatment the patient was receiving at the BBC was a barrier between the patient and reality… any outside observer could see that that was true, and might even say that this was the purpose of the facility altogether.

But Martha was interpreting the revelation in a different way entirely. She interpreteded it the way she knew Rose had meant it.

* * *

><p>Rose's narrative gave her a second wind. Martha sat on the balcony all night, until part two of her story was finished. She read it over, then over again. As the sun came up, she wandered back into her flat with her laptop cradled in one arm, an empty bottle of wine, and a cold teapot gathered in the other arm and her mug in her hand. She dumped them all on the kitchen counter and dragged herself rather happily to bed. She was dead to the world almost before her head hit the pillow.<p>

However, she croaked, "Lo?" one hour later when Tish rang, two hours later.

"Are you still in bed?" Tish asked, infuriatingly cheerfully.

There was a pause while Martha groaned and turned to look at the clock. "It's seven forty-five, Tish," she protested.

"I've been up for almost three hours!"

"Well, you're very special. Mum always said so," Martha hissed sarcasitcally.

"You're awfully cheeky for someone who's asking for favours."

"Sorry. What's up?"

"I found _two more_ publications that will take part two of your story. My friend at _Fantasy Week_ made a call and convinced _his_ friend at _Wellington's Digest,_ the gentleman's magazine, which is huge."

"I'll say!" Martha said. "Wow. That's fantastic!"

"And I made another call for you, and I got the PR guy at _The City Star_, to agree as well," Tish told her.

"Er, what did you have to say you'd do?" Martha asked, warily, referring to the magazine's seedy reputation.

"Nothing," Tish said. "It's already done. Two years ago. After a cocktail party and a few too many Mojitos. I don't want to discuss it. Just be glad I'm such a… social butterfly, eh?"

Martha resisted the urge to point out that _social butterfly_ was a very nice way of putting it, and she simply said, "Thanks, Tish."

Then she stepped into the kitchen for a few moments and took down the three e-mail addresses. She said goodbye to her sister and fired up her laptop, sending part two of her story off to the people who could help her save her patient, even if they had no idea they were doing it.


	18. Chapter 18

EIGHTEEN

A month passed, and the end of August was on their heels. Martha took a small holiday with an old friend in Newcastle. She did not listen to any narratives nor do any writing during that time. It was time to let go, if only temporarily.

When she arrived home, Tish was waiting for her.

"Whoa, what are you doing here?" Martha asked, climbing out of the taxi with a rucksack. She turned and paid the driver, and he sped off.

Tish slammed her car door. "I think I'm going to need an explanation, Martha."

"For what?"

"This whole Doctor business. The story. It's getting out of hand!"

"How so?"

"All three of those magazines, _Fantasy Week, Wellington's Digest _and _City Star_ have already printed part three for their September issues… those haven't even hit the newsstands yet, and they have already agreed to do part four!"

"Wow! That's fantastic!"

"But here's the barmy bit," Tish said. "I got calls from three more magazines asking us to _hold_ part four until they've had a chance to print part three. They want _in on the action_, as they put it."

"Are these people you know?"

"No! These are total strangers, people in publishing who want to get their hands on your story!"

"Wow," Martha repeated.

"Yeah, erm, I'm coming in your flat," Tish announced. "And you are going to tell me what's going on."

They walked into the flat together, and Tish kept pushing for more information. Martha shushed her, and insisted she needed a few moments to get her bearings. She convinced Tish to go out and get some Thai food, let Martha have a shower, get her clothes changed and her backed-up post opened, and then they would sit and have dinner and talk.

* * *

><p>Martha wandered into the living room before Tish had returned, wearing a comfy pair of shorts and a tee-shirt. She leafed through her bills, and switched on the television. A story about Harold Saxon's growing popularity nearly made her heave. Then, the main anchor turned the mic over to an entertainment correspondant, and Martha turned her attention to an inflated mobile phone bill.<p>

"Who is Martha Jones?" the correspondent asked, by way of introduction.

Martha's ears perked up when she heard this, and her eyes snapped toward the television and went wide like saucers. She turned up the volume.

"Good question, that. No-one really knows. No-one has ever seen her. But one thing is for sure: her fictional serial entitled _Doctor Who_ has become a bit of a cult sensation, and the name Martha Jones is on the tips of more and more tongues in the English-speaking world."

The report went to footage of book shops and magazine stands, where people were leafing through the publications.

"The Doctor, according to the stories, is a kind of alien freedom-fighter who travels through time and space, fighting for the rights of all creatures, saving the universe…"

For the next several minutes, Martha watched in awe, as different stock images floated across the screen, and the reporter's voice told his interpretation of the Doctor's story, and then spoke to some various readers about why they were so immediately drawn to the tale.

"Oi," Tish said, suddenly standing right next to her.

Martha jumped. "Oh! You scared the hell out of me. Are you seeing this?"

"Yep," Tish answered, tossing the bag of Thai food onto the coffee table. "My phone rang seventeen times on the way to and from the Thai place. I told you, it's getting out of hand."

She ripped open the bag and handed Martha a disposable container and a pair of chopsticks. She set a drink in front of her, then did the same for herself.

"Okay, spill it, sister," Tish said. "What's come over you? I thought this would just be a quickie thing, like a couple of magazines would do a few instalments, and then you'd lose your nerve. But… this is what you wanted, isn't it?"

Martha quietly opened her box and gingerly ate a few noodles with her chopsticks. "Yes," she admitted.

"You wanted this to be all epic?"

"Yes."

"Why, Martha? What has brought this on?"

Martha took a deep breath. "My patient, the one I…" she hesitated. "The one I'm sort of in love with… remember him?"

"Oh, Martha."

"He's in big trouble. You know that brother that Harold Saxon keeps parading in front of the media?"

"Yeah!"

"That's him. That's my patient."

"Oh my God!" Tish exclaimed. "I thought this patient you talked about was just someone you saw on the couch each week."

"No, I don't do that kind of work anymore," Martha told her sister. "I've been working at a mental hospital, the Bernard Briscoe Clinic... well, I _had been, _until a month ago."

"And this guy was a patient there?"

Martha nodded.

"But how is he in big trouble?" Tish asked. "I mean, I agree that it's not exactly ethical of Saxon to be using him like that…"

"Saxon brought in the biggest, baddest lawyers he could find and had him ripped from our care," Martha said. "From _my _care. From proper care. And he blackmailed one of our nurses, Jack, into working for him. I've heard from Jack since then, Tish. Jack can only do so much – physically and legally. He can administer medication, but his hands are tied on a lot of things. Like if the patient needs an adjustment, he can't legally do that. And he wouldn't. And my patient is being kept in a little room…"

Martha sighed. She was aware that what she was about to say next might make her cry, and that her sister might interpret all of this business as just Martha being lovesick, or worse.

But she continued. "He's severly depressed. Withdrawn. He stares out the window all the time, and never moves. He was _never_ that way, Tish. You don't understand what he's like. You've seen him on television, very subdued and doesn't say a word? That's the opposite of his personality! Harold Saxon is squeezing the life out of him for his own gain!"

"Okay," Tish said. "Calm down."

"The Doctor is not a quiet man!" Martha all but shouted. "Not _my_ Doctor! He doesn't just roll over and let things happen!"

"Your doctor? You mean your patient."

Tears were now running slowly down Martha's cheek. "And I shudder to think of what Saxon will do with his brother once the election is over. Especially if he loses."

"All right, I get it."

"And," Martha said very softly. "Jack says he keeps talking about me."

"What?"

"Jack says that all he'll talk about is me," Martha said, sniffing, trying to control the sobs that wanted to gush out. "How I'm the only one who can save him. Any hope he has, all of it relies on me." It hurt her to say it. It squeezed her heart like a lemon.

"Martha, I know you love him, but he's crazy," Tish counselled. "You can't put stock in what he's muttering to himself in a locked room."

"Mentally ill," Martha corrected. She was correcting the terminology. She was not, she was aware, confirming Tish's assessment of her patient.

"I can see that. That's like Saxon's whole platform right now," Tish commented. "Okay, I accept all of this, and I'm sorry for you, I'm sorry for your patient, and I'm sorry for Jack. But what does any of this have to do with your _Doctor Who _stories?"

"His official condition is to do with severe delusions."

"Saxon, or his brother?"

"Probably both, actually," Martha said with a smirk. "But I'm just talking about the brother, my patient."

"Okay… so he's delusional about what?"

"He thinks he's the Doctor."

"The Doctor," Tish clarified. "_The_ Doctor from your stories? The time-travelling alien?"

"Yes."

"But didn't you just start writing all of that?"

"Yes. The stories are based on his condition, not the other way round."

"Couldn't you lose your licence for that?" Tish asked. "Telling stories about your patient ?"

"You've read them. How the hell would anyone know the stories are real?"

"Real?"

Martha sighed.

Tish asked, "You mean, based on a real case-study, right?"

Martha shook her head.

Tish's face went pale. "Martha, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying, they're real."

"How do you mean _real_?"

Martha took a long time to answer. She was fairly certain that her sister already thought she'd gone over the edge, but she still felt she wanted to phrase her answer carefully. Ultimately, she decided there was no _good _way to say this, so she just said it.

"I mean the Doctor is real. The Doctor exists. He's not a delusion."

Tish gaped at her for a several moments. "You're joking."

"I wish I were," Martha said. "It would be easier if I didn't believe it, if I could have just gone blissfully through this treatment like the others…"

"The others?"

"Yes," Martha began to explain. "All of the other caretakers. Dozens of people have cared for the Doctor over the years, and very few have realised it."

"Realised what?"

Exasperated, Martha said, "That he's real! So far, it's just been me, and one other that I'm close to confirming."

"One other person who knew he was real?"

"Yes! Her name was Rose Tyler. And she was fired for it."

"Of course she was."

"And then there's Dr. Smith, she might have known. She got really close with her patient as well, and there were indicators that the Tardis got in her head as well."

"The TARDIS? The spaceship."

"Yeah. And then there was an orderly called Latimer, who seemed to know the Doctor. But I can't see him – he's on lockdown or something."

"Hm. Okay. So when you say dozens of people _over the years_…"

"You know, in the stories, how the Doctor changes, regenerates? Well, that's true – the Doctor dies, and regenerates into a new body and face and personality. In _our_ reality…"

"In our what?" Tish shouted.

"In our reality," Martha continued, calmly. "This idea manifests as patient after patient, residing in a special ward in the clinic, all of them with the same delusion, that he is the Doctor. And there's always a lead psychiatrist or two, and a few nurses around, who are the _companions _in the Doctor's life, the sidekick characters in my stories."

"How do you know all this?"

"I've learned a lot from the psychiatrist narratives. Anyway, the patients tend to die after a few years, and a new one comes in and picks up the delusion where the last guy left off – it's fascinating. And even weirder, they remember each other, and each others' lives. My patient remembers stuff that happened to him when he was the First Doctor."

"Really?" Tish asked sceptically.

"Yes! How else could you explain it! The Doctor is real! It's our reality that's…"

"What?"

"I don't know. A dream? A hell dimension? The Doctor would know."

Tish sighed heavily and blew the air out through pursed lips. After a few beats she said, "Martha, do you have any idea how bloody insane you sound?"

"I'm a psychiatrist, Tish," Martha answered. "I'm an expert in bloody insane. So yes, I'm aware. And to tell you the truth…" she hesitated. "…I'm not entirely sure that I'm not bloody insane. I just know what I _feel_. And only part of it is being in love."

"I see."

"I am in love," Martha confirmed. "But more importantly, I feel connected to the universe. To something… something _other._"

"What, like a mystic?"

"Maybe. But it's all to do with the Doctor. I'm connected to him, and he's connected to the universe, so, I am too."

"Blimey, Martha."

"I know, I know. That's why I'm telling the stories as if they were fiction, and not on the chat shows ranting about it. For that I'd definitely lose my licence."

"Well, if this world is just a dream or a hell dimension or something, why do you even care about your licence?"

Martha thought about this. "Maybe I don't," she said. "It's not even the point. The point is, when you want to convince people of something that's a little bit insane, you can't just throw it at them and get in their face. You have to come at it insidiously."

"By making them love the serial, then later convincing them that it's real?"

"Maybe not exactly that, but something like that. But, not just the stories – _the Doctor_. I want them to _know_ him."

There was a long silence between the sisters, while they continued to eat their Thai food.

"Martha," Tish said after a long while. "I'm not sure what to do with this. My first instinct is to take you back to that clinic and have you committed."

"In one year, if you still think I'm out of my mind, then you can do whatever you want, call in the guys with butterfly nets, whatever. Just give me one year."

"A whole year?"

"Yes. That is how long it will take me to tell the Doctor's story, and turn the world inside-out."

Tish was contemplative, gazing at her sister. "How do you figure?"

"My Doctor is the Tenth Doctor," Martha said. "I'm publishing one Doctor story per month, which means that around May of next year, I'll be telling my Doctor's stories. But I'll need a couple of months for him, because I have to tell Rose Tyler's story along with it, then leave people hanging for a bit, tease them with a new companion or a new Doctor or something… get them salivating for another instalment…"

"You are very manipulative," Tish remarked. "Why don't _you _run for public office?"

Martha chuckled.

"How do you know it will work?" Tish asked.

* * *

><p>Tish had asked if she could stay the night with Martha. It wasn't a particularly long drive back to her flat in London, but Martha recognised that her sister was worried about her, so she allowed her to stay. She only had one bedroom, so Martha changed the sheets and Tish took her bed, and Martha wandered about her flat in her pyjamas, the blankets strewn in a very bed-like fashion across the sofa. But she was unable to lie down just yet.<p>

In her hand, she held a small piece of paper. She hadn't looked at it since she'd scribbled the words upon it and shoved it into her pocket a month earlier. When she'd arrived home on the day when Saxon took her patient, she'd shoved the little piece of paper in a drawer.

Now, she was ready to look again. After talking to Tish, she needed a little faith, a little hope and reassurance that she was doing the right thing. Her handwriting looked like chicken scratchings because she'd done it so quickly. But she didn't need it to be clear, just legible, because his voice was in her head all the time, and his words had echoed within her ceaselessly since that day.

"_Martha Jones, listen closely. I need you to believe me. I am entirely aware of the Bernard Briscoe Clinic, Ward 40, that I have been labelled as delusional, and that you are my psychiatrist. I am aware that the room I live in is not a spaceship nor a time machine. I am not delusional, Martha – I am trapped. Some part you knows it, has been working it out slowly and wondering why you feel this way. Rose was not fired because she loved me. She knew what everyone else in the world missed. Dig deep, go big, Martha. Don't give up – you're all I've got now."_


	19. Chapter 19

**I'll admit the forward-moving plot sort of stalls out here, but a very**** wise reviewer pointed out that Martha is investigating, and understanding her patient better _through _Rose. This is exactly what I had intended, but I didn't have the wherewithal to phrase it that way! **

**This chapter, these narratives, give Martha fire, further motivate her to do what she's doing, to help, to love, to do something that no one has ever done before. And it reveals a little more of the big picture, I think, the motivation behind it all, and why Martha's in such a difficult spot.**

**So, brace yourself for a big, heavy dose of ROSE! Fortunately, the Rose in this story is not necessarily the Rose we know!**

* * *

><p><span>NINETEEN<span>

"It's 19 June, 2005. This is Rose Tyler. I don't know how much fight left I have in me… or even energy to do this recording. The Daleks came in and effectively stripped down the facility to its bare bones. From what I'd heard, they could be awfully destructive, but they've never really looked like they might completely turn the facility upside-down before. But they did a number on us. This time, the BBC lost thirteen staff members – _thirteen!_ And four of them were doctors! Because they were perceived as unproductive, according to the Daleks' perception of productive. Whatever that is. We've not even been left with enough staff to keep the place running on a regular basis.

"The worst firing was Jack. He has been an invaluable partner to me, but something in his methods spooked the Daleks and they insisted he had to go. He was detrimental to the process they said, could not be trusted to further their cause, or some such rubbish. I'm led to wonder if they don't like him because he's gay. I promised them I would do it myself, that I'd give him the sack.

"But I couldn't. They _exterminated _him, but I couldn't let him go entirely… I just told him I couldn't have him in the Tardis with me anymore. He was very, very hurt. I don't think he believed that it wasn't my fault. I'm not sure that even I believe it wasn't my fault, now that I think of it. I hated doing it. I wonder if we'll ever be friends again. He's still at the BBC, but they stuck him on the night shift in the Torchwood wing…"

Martha felt for Rose again, here. Jack certainly did think that it was Rose's fault he'd been tossed into the Torchwood wing. Someday, Martha hoped she could have him listen to this narrative, so he'd know the truth, and know it wasn't Rose being selfish in insisting he had to go. That is, if Jack existed as she knew him after this was all over. That thought, in spite of herself, gave her a shiver.

Rose let out a big sigh, and her tone turned to an exhausted depression, her speech was almost slurred at this point.

"And I lost my patient last night. He was brilliant. He was young and fanatical, and he shouldn't have died. The last thing he said to me was that I was fantastic, and so was he… he said he wanted to take me to Barcelona. He talked about all the things he'd never get to do with me, and it really felt like a goodbye. But I just stared at him like an idiot, and didn't bother to ask any questions. I should have seen it. He knew something then! When I arrived this morning, an ambulance was exiting the place with my patient on a gurney… oh, God. He knew he was going to die, but what the hell happened to him? I don't even know if there will be an autopsy. Sometimes these patients just die, and people don't care why, as long as they're shut up in these walls and their lives don't have to be disrupted…"

Rose caught herself ranting. She martialed her tone, and returned to her detached, though sad, narrative.

"And so, this marks the passing of the Ninth Doctor, I suppose. I don't know what will happen next for the Tardis. I suppose we'll just have to see. Good day."

The next narrative picked up a week later, and Rose's tone was rushed and a little frantic.

"26 June, 2005. This is Rose Tyler. This is to document the fact that the BBC is currently so understaffed because of the great extermination last week, that I have been acting as a liaison to several other patients in the facility, adjusting medications all over the place, and basically trying to help take up the slack for four other doctors, while we try to keep this place afloat. In another couple of weeks, after the dust settles, we will begin trying to find replacements for the professionals who were dismissed, if not trying to get some of them back, but for now, we're spread extremely thin. The Tardis doesn't have a patient right now, and it won't, until I can find the time to devote full attention to it. And that won't happen until we get the place staffed! Bloody patrons. Sorry, that was out of line. I'll pick up the records again as soon as I know what will happen with the Tardis. Sorry, Tenth Doctor – you'll just have to wait, wherever you are. Bye.

"It's Christmas Eve, 2005, and Rose Tyler is back in the Tardis again, hurray. Except… er, my new patient won't wake up! They brought him in this morning, he said Merry Christmas with a smile, and then stumbled into bed and hasn't moved since. And that was twelve hours ago. I've taken vitals, I've taken bloods, I've looked over his chart, I've done every test that makes sense to do, to find out what's going on with him… so far all I can conclude is that he's just a sleepy guy. I don't know what else to say…

"So, for the record, the new patient looks to be between, I'd say, thirty and thirty-five years old. Dark hair, thin build, and maybe six feet tall. Hard to tell when he's lying down. I haven't really communed with him yet, so the personality is still… incubating, maybe. I suppose he'll recognise me when he wakes – they usually do recognise the caregivers. Just part and parcel of the wonder of this weird, weird place. It will be my first time witnessing it, first-hand, and with calling a new person Doctor… I still feel, to a certain extent, that _my _Doctor is dead."

Rose's tone had evolved back away from the crushing depression, as she seemed amused by the state of things with the new patient. The fact that he liked to sleep was both worrying for her, and rather funny. Martha chuckled about it herself.

The next day, the Doctor, _her _Doctor, took Rose through an entire adventure with an alien race called the Sycorax, in which he seemed to metacogitate over his own newly-regenerated qualities. Martha remembered earlier on, after working with her patient for a bit, and after reading several narratives, being surprised to witness how the Tenth Doctor processes information aloud, which the other Doctors had never demonstrated. Martha delighted in hearing this, something she could use to reconcile the Doctor she was hearing about with the Doctor she knew. She laughed out loud when Rose related the fact that he talked and talked about what kind of man he was now, and how he said, "Judging from the evidence, I certainly have got quite a gob."

Into the spring of 2006, Rose told stories, without much speculation. She seemed to be lost in the adventure. Some of them contained snippets that Martha recognised. She recalled having been warned by Sarah Jane that this Doctor had taken Rose ahead, five billion years into the future, and that he had put the companion's mind and life in danger by having her overtaken by the consciousness of a malevolent _being_ of some sort, called Lady Cassandra.

Rose mused over this Lady Cassandra story, and became very reflective. And shades of the infamous Rose Tyler that everyone at the BBC thought they knew began to rear their heads. Martha began to recognise it straight away, just as she had in listening to Sarah Jane's voice, back in the early 70's.

"The Lady Cassandra bit was interesting and amusing… what was interesting was the concept itself. That this brittle old human who's had thousands of plastic surgeries should be literally looking for a new body – it's a new spin on an already really disturbing character, who was, it should be noted, a creation of the Ninth Patient, not the Tenth. But there she was again, showing up in his inherited memory, just like when he woke up and met me, knew my name and everything about me that the Ninth Patient had known.

"And it was amusing because I really went for it – I played two different characters! I played Rose Tyler, companion to the Doctor, and I played Lady Cassandra! It was a laugh and half! I might have taken it too far, though, because I… "

She swallowed hard, and Martha could hear it. "Oh, there it is, Rose," she said. "I've got you."

"… well, let's just suffice it to say that I rather enjoyed playing the coquettish role."

"Not a very good save," Martha commented. "Doesn't hide your intentions at all, I'm sorry to say, my dear."

"But this thing with Cassandra, the one thing that didn't sit well with me was, what if…"

Rose sighed, and Martha listened, waiting, knowing. She knew what was bothering Rose because the same thing would have bothered _her _in that position.

"…it's like he wants…"

But Rose trailed off, and said nothing more, except to sign off from the recording.

Martha knew that Rose was disturbed because the Cassandra experience might indicate that the Tenth Patient wants her to be someone else. And from Rose's tone, it would be apparent to anyone familiar with rudimentary human emotion, that that was a thought that hurt her a lot.

"This is Rose Tyler on 22 April, 2006. How adventurous – my patient chained me to the radiator today. Under any other circumstances… well, never mind."

Rose didn't finish her thought, but gave an impish little laugh.

"Rose!" Martha shouted aloud. "Shame on you!" But she couldn't help but echo the laugh uneasily.

"Today's adventure was one of an old-fashioned sort. We were fighting werewolves with Queen Victoria in Scotland. A boy had been kidnapped years before, and raised by an order of wolf-worshippers, or lycanthropes or whatever. He became the werewolf on a full moon, of course…

"I've always enjoyed taking these little anecdotes and ruminating over what they mean to the patient's psyche. A werewolf might indicate that the patient feels he is carrying something monstrous within himself… or even perhaps that he is trapped. The man is held down or held back by his affliction…"

Martha gave a hugh exhale. "Wow."

There was quite a long pause while Rose thought about this. She gave several long pauses in between thoughts for the next few minutes as she worked out her theories and feelings about the Tenth Patient's werewolf scenario. "In the werewolf archetype, of course, the monster comes out during a full moon. In the night, when there's the most potential for mischief, but when the brightest possible light shines upon that night… and in my patient's interpretation, even though the wolf is made of moonlight and thrives on it, he can be drowned in it. The man asks to be flooded with light so that he can be purged… he wants to be released, let go from the monstrosity… the man needs to be free…

"All right, now I'm really going to digress, because... oh, I think I'm onto something. Maybe. Or, I don't know. But... well, my former patient created the gas mask story, which I perceived as a way of telling me that something is keeping him from reality. I felt that his treatments here at the BBC could be the metaphorical gas mask, though I could never confirm it because of the state of the patient's mental health. This time, I believe the barrier between the man, and being _set free_ is a metaphorical monstrosity, the wolf. The gas mask… the Tardis, the treatment. Maybe even me…

"No Tardis patient has ever been cured nor shown any signs of lucidity, but what if I could find the light? What kind of metaphorical moonlight would he need, in order to be free? To rid himself of the mask, or whatever barrier there is between reality, freedom, and himself? What if I could act as that light, as opposed to being part of the barrier? What if I could get closer to him, and learn… no, what if I could give… he's alone in the world, no closeness, no intimacy… I mean, not… intimacy… I mean, what if…"

Martha was holding her breath now. She saw that Rose was putting the pieces together, and she saw the road down which Rose would run in order to solve the mystery as she understood it. She was beginning to suspect what Martha knew: the Doctor was trapped behind something, keeping him from some kind of reality or truth. But Rose thought that her closeness, her love, could be the catalyst to dissolve the barrier. Perhaps she had misinterpreted the Doctor's objective truth, and what was holding him back. Perhaps she had not exactly seen the _literal _realness of the Doctor, but whatever it was, she would ultimately fail. She was misguided, clearly, Martha just wasn't sure exactly how. Though, it didn't really matter.

The Doctor had said, _she knew what everyone else in the world missed_. Martha had had the benefit of that counsel from the Doctor. Rose, clearly, had not. Should she be _thanking_ Harold Saxon for driving her to this point?

Not that Martha didn't sympathise with Rose's point of view. And frankly, without Rose's messed-up model, she wasn't entirely certain that she wouldn't have gone down exactly the same road.

Martha gathered that from the point when Rose made this decision, when she started speculating that she could love him enough to set him free, she began acting differently, and everyone at the BBC began to notice.

"It's 29th April, 2006, Rose Tyler. The BBC directors have sent in a _consultant_ to assist me with my patient. Why, I have no idea. I asked them directly if after over a year of impeccable service to them, they were now questioning my qualifications, and they denied it. So what the hell is this about?

"She seems pleasant enough. Or at least, she probably was in her day, which was here at the BBC in the early 1970's. She worked with the Tardis patient back then, and is familiar with the phenomenon of the Doctor. But she's… she doesn't… ugh. Childishly, I suppose, I just don't like having her around. I have a job to do, a mission to accomplish, it's my own personal… and anyway, she doesn't understand."

This was about as immature and unprofessional a tone as Martha had ever experienced in a psychiatric narrative. Consulting doctors were common practice in the profession, and most of the time, a collegial doctor who works in a collective institution like the BBC is more than happy to collaborate. Rose herself had been happy to collaborate, just a few months before. So what had changed? The answer was, of course, obvious.

"Today is the 30th of April, 2006, and this is Sarah Jane Smith. I want it to be known that I am doing this particular narrative under protest, and I believe that asking me to spy on a colleague under the guise of consultation and assistance is unethical and unprofessional. I did not agree to come back to the BBC and the Tardis to do this – I thought I was helping the patient, the newest man who has come under the guise of the Doctor. As it turns out, I'm studying something else entirely, and I feel duped and a bit buggered! But in the end, I suppose, I'm doing it for her own good, for Rose Tyler. It's why I'm here. If I'm not going to cooperate, then why bother? Rose is a good girl, and she deserves to be cared for just like anyone else."

Martha was surprised, though she wasn't sure why. She had sat by and watched the BBC advisors do and order some very dodgy things, and had read and listened to numerous narratives in which _facility leadership_ was blamed, probably justly, for some monumentally counter-productive decisions.

Sarah Jane went on to describe Rose's relationship with her patient as "extremely familiar," "flirtatious," and "fraught with innuendo." She described Rose herself as "idealistic and perhaps a bit naïve," "doe-eyed," and "searching for a kind of validation which she may never receive." She predicted some "painful revelations" for Rose's future, and an ultimate separation for her and her patient, which would take them both by surprise and leave them both broken. Martha marvelled at this; Sarah Jane had been absolutely right. The Tenth Patient had been broken by the forced separation from Rose, and had been showing signs of it until the bitter end when he was ripped away from the BBC.

Where most doctors were there to do their case studies on patients, Dr. Smith was there to do her case study on the doctor/patient dynamic.

"But, Dr. Tyler is not an anomaly by any means – let's sort that out right now. She and her patient are very close in age, both attractive, and I can certainly –_ certainly – _sympathise with being taken with the mystique of the Doctor. That's why I suspect I was brought back in, as opposed to some other former Tardis doctor. Plus, history is rife with stories of caregivers who develop non-plantonic feelings for their patients, so much so that the phenomenon has been given a name in the medical and psychological community! However, a medical professional knows where to draw the line. What I'm seeing is Dr. Tyler resisting that line for some reason. Almost pathologically, intentionally, stubbornly. I believe…

"Well, I think Dr. Tyler is a very good doctor. She's ahead of her time. Really, ahead of her time and extremely astute. Astute almost to a fault. She has come to certain conclusions, made certain discoveries that… I just, I know what she wants, and she's not going to get it. And it's not just about a romantic liaison with the patient, or the Doctor, it's something out of reach of… I wish I could explain, but I can't. Out of reach of all of us. Of the patient, especially."

"Oh my God," Martha whispered. "Sarah Jane knew it too."

Three women fell in love with the Doctor. Three women knew the truth.

Sarah Jane just couldn't or wouldn't push hard enough, and seemed ultimately not to believe that freeing the Doctor was even possible. Rose believed it, but went in the wrong direction.

And all that was left was Martha

_Dig deep, go big, Martha. You're all I've got now._ The words echoed in her mind almost constantly.

She glanced at the manuscript for the next instalment of her _Doctor Who_ series. God, she hoped she was going the right direction this time.


	20. Chapter 20

**All righty, the story is starting to wind down now. Not sure exactly how many chapters more, but not very many! I'm excited!**

**This chapter exists mostly as a way to tie up some loose ends with Jack and Rose. I thought both of their stories needed to be told, and their motivations revealed. Also, Rose's plight is supposed to light a fire under Martha, to get her to act faster and more aggressively.**

* * *

><p><span>TWENTY<span>

_Everyone else in the world._

The whole world?

Surely it was an exaggeration, Martha thought, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. It was just after Christmas, and her _Doctor Who _stories, initially just a British and Irish, and to a lesser extent, an Australian phenomenon, had now spread to the New World. The U.S. and Canada were now on-board. Some North American magazines had recently begun printing the stories from the beginning, two at a time, to catch their American readers up with the readers in Britain. Tish had become Martha's de-facto agent, and was currently in negotiations to have the stories translated into Arabic, French and Spanish. This way, they could spread further into developed parts of Africa, Asia and the Middle East, and certainly South America and Western Europe. Most people in the world could read in one of those four languages, so Martha reckoned it would be a good spread.

But the Doctor had said _everyone in the world_. And the bigger the stories got, paradoxically, the more Martha worried that they wouldn't reach everyone.

_What about China? Russia? What about people who don't read? Should we start looking into doing radio dramas, or audio books? _

These were the thoughts currently keeping her up at night. The rational side of her mind said that with the way she was doing things, she could probably get _close enough…_

Honestly, what Tish could be negotiating was beyond Martha. She was not accepting any money for her stories, which was absolutely by design, and was obviously one of the reasons why so many publishers were clamouring for them. They were popular, and free. The only thing she asked is that no-one ever change a word. What cards Tish could be holding or what she was asking for, Martha simply didn't know. She had come to realise over the past several months that she had frequently under-estimated her sister in the past. But Tish was actually _very _good at her job, and it was a job that Martha could never do.

As various people had begun to recognise the Doctor's story, Martha had heard from a number of doctors and nurses. Even though she had changed the names of the "companions" in the _Doctor Who _stories, the tales of the Time Lord who travels in a police box was clearly not lost on people like Dr. Jovanka and Dr. Brown, both of whom had tried to get in touch with Martha to praise her efforts at getting the Doctor's story out there.

Although, plenty of them had called or written to scold her for making light of the patients' affliction for her own gain and for exposing the wounds of their families and of the BBC. Martha knew that they weren't privy to the fact that she was receiving no financial gain from this endeavour, and felt that they were choosing not to see how well-veiled she had made her stories. No family could be identified, no patient, and not even the facility. No news had even yet come to light that anyone suspected the stories were based on anything other than Martha Jones' imagination! No-one in the general public knew there were any patients or families or facilities to be identified! Nevertheless, plenty of former Tardis workers had accused her of breach of ethics, and threatened to report her to various medical boards and committees. She was not exactly astonished to find that she didn't feel threatened in the least.

The fact was, she had not spoken to any of them, nor had any direct e-mail or paper-and-pencil contact with any of them. Tish had relayed all of the messages to her, and had relayed Martha's sentiments back to them, with her special PR spin.

The three people she had not heard from were Joan, Sarah Jane and Jack. She understood why Sarah Jane was keeping out of it, and Joan as well. But not hearing from Jack was hard for Martha. She had tried his home number, and his mobile number – both had been disconnected and changed. She asked Tish to try and get through to Jack at Saxon's place, but as Tish told it, the switchboard there was impenetrable. It felt to Martha like Jack was being kept just as much of a prisoner as the Doctor.

And then one day, out of the blue, she'd received a breathless, whispered call.

"Martha?"

"Yes?"

"It's Jack."

"Jack! Oh my God, it's so good to hear from you! Why are you whispering?"

"I'll tell you later. Can you meet me at Raimundo's at 7am on December 28th?"

"Yeah, I'll make sure that I can."

"Okay. I'll see you then." And he'd clicked off.

* * *

><p>She hadn't slept anyway, so as long as she was awake, worrying about the whole world, she decided to get up a bit early and have an extra long shower. When she met Jack at the busy little espresso house, she was knackered, and bless him, he could tell.<p>

"Hey," he said, kissing her on the cheek as he sat down across from her. "You look terrible. You look like you haven't slept."

She smiled. "Thanks – I haven't! But you're looking good."

"I'm not feeling good," he confessed, running his hand dispairingly over his face.

"I gathered."

"I've been reading your work," Jack commented with a little smile. "Interesting stuff, I must say."

"Well, I've always fancied that I missed my calling as a novelist."

"Why are you doing it?"

"It's a long story, Jack. You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

He smiled and patted her hand.

"Martha, I don't have much time," he said. "Saxon's people are watching me, pretty much twenty-four seven. I only could come today because I happen to know that the head of security's wife had scheduled a C-section for this morning, but it's only a matter of time before the rest of them realise I'm late for work and start looking for my car."

"Blimey. I wondered why you'd been so incognito."

"Yeah, sorry about that. But I came here to give you some news."

"Okay, shoot."

Jack took a deep breath, and a quick glance around, as though looking for spies.

"Something weird happened the other day," Jack began. "For months and months, it's been the same old thing. He sits there in front of the window in a chair, staring out, and every few hours, he says, _come on, Martha, _or something like that. Once in a while he eats, but mostly, I have to feed him intravenously. His eyes are sunken, his hair has started turning grey at the temples, and he's lost weight, if you can imagine that. They really make him up for the television cameras whenever they're there, to make it look like he's thriving."

"Mm-hm," Martha commented. She had suspected everything Jack was saying, though she didn't want to speak now because she was afraid she'd cry.

"But, about a week ago, I was talking to him," he continued. "I do that – I talk a lot, even though he never answers. I usually try to keep him in character, keep myself in character, at the risk of jostling him somehow… psychically. I don't know if that makes any medical sense or not, but… anyway, I was talking to him in character, about planets we'd visited together, about aliens and time… He looked right at me, totally bright-eyed, and said, 'Jack, I'm sorry you got blackmailed into being my nurse.'"

"He said that? To you?"

"Yeah," said Jack, agitated and excited. "He knew I was there to care for him, and knew I'd been blackmailed."

"Okay. What else?"

He blinked hard at her. "Why are you so calm? He acknowledges me as a caregiver! It's a sign of lucidity!"

"I realise that," Martha told him calmly. "What else did he say?"

Jack looked at her with shock, then cleared his throat and continued. "He wanted to know whether I was protecting my partner from something, and I said yes. I tried to assure him that I wanted to be with _him _as well, and that blackmail wasn't the only reason why I was there, but he just smiled sort of indulgently, and asked what kind of information Saxon had over us."

"Did you tell him the truth?"

"Yes," Jack confessed. "I did. I talked about our Special Ops mission in Afghanistan in '02, and said that one of my officers had got into jam. I confessed that I had perhaps _misused_ my own spotless military record in order to get him out of it, and after that, we sort of fell in love. He asked me when I'd joined the military, and I told him I'd enlisted when I was eighteen, hoping they could boot-camp the gay out of me. He laughed and said, 'so, mid-1980's, then, before _Don't Ask, Don't Tell_.' Like he knew I'd been born in the late sixties. The _nineteen_ sixties, not in the 52nd century."

"Then what?"

Jack still couldn't believe Martha wasn't more surprised.

"Then, he said 'Thank you for sharing such a big secret with me, Jack,' and went back to looking out the window again. His eyes glazed over, and he reverted to form. I tried again the next day to introduce real-world stuff, but he wasn't home anymore."

"He was sharing his big secret with you, too," Martha said. "He did that by asking for reciprocation."

Jack stared at her for a long moment. Then asked, "What?"

She sighed. "If I tell you what I mean, and explain to you what I think happened to you that day with the Doctor, then I'll be revealing my own big secret as well," Martha told him. "And it's big."

"Are you saying you want me to tell you about my partner's Special Ops thing? I'll only tell you if you promise to believe that it was an accident."

"You can tell me if you want," Martha said. "But no, I'm trying to say that it's big, and you can't spread it round. Everything is going according to plan, and you can't let this get out, okay? But you deserve to know."

* * *

><p>Long after Jack had left Raimundo's, Martha sat with one hand wrapped around an espresso, absently watching people order their drinks, pay, and pick them up. There was something hypnotic about the whole process. She would have liked to have ordered another coffee, but she was riveted to the café dance.<p>

She was left with the image of the Doctor, sickly and even thinner, staring out the window. She was left with the image of Jack and his partner, cowering under the threat of military prison, as posed by Harold Saxon. And she was left with the image of Jack looking at her sceptically, and with a twinge of fear. That had hurt. He hadn't believed her. He spent almost every waking hour with the Doctor, with the man she was trying to help. He had seen the "lucid" side, and yet, he didn't believe that the Doctor was trapped, and that Martha's stories could save him. She had held out some hope with Jack, but it truly did appear now that her only veritable ally was Tish. Though, Tish didn't really believe it either – she was just doing it because she'd promised to give Martha the benefit of the doubt for one year.

The good news was that Martha was now more sure than ever. The Doctor was alive, though not well, and he needed an out.

* * *

><p>For a few months now, she had been resisting listening to the final instalments of Rose Tyler's narrative. The last thing she'd heard was an adventure in which the Doctor had literally met up with Satan. In the story, the Doctor's <em>faith<em> in Rose had saved the day. Not Rose herself, because the Doctor believed in her… it was _the fact _that he believed in her, an intangible bond between the man and the woman. It had given Martha a bad sort of chill. It had literally been the catalyst for him to muster up the will to fight the beast. He'd been reluctant to do what needed to be done, because it might mean sacrificing Rose. But in the end, he'd said that if he'd never believed in anything before, he certainly did believe in her.

"He believed I could survive! He believed that the power of his love would be enough to give me the will to come back to him, even if I was being pulled into a black hole," she had said in her narrative. She had told the story, weeping throughout, and Martha could clearly hear that the woman had come unhinged. She was no longer caring that people could hear what she was saying on the recordings, and her condition, her state of mind, was only going to unravel further. Martha had stopped listening at that point.

Martha recalled Jack saying that Rose had been "hauled" out of the BBC, that she was "tragically" not in control of her emotions, and that she had screamed _I love you_ at the Doctor in front of "God and the world." An ugly picture formed in Martha's mind after listening to the Satan story, and she suddenly felt she knew how things had played out. She realised why she hadn't been able to track Rose's employment history after leaving the BBC – Rose was probably now a patient herself somewhere.

Rose Tyler had once been a good doctor, and she had been a great help to Martha's process. Martha chose not to confirm nor disprove her assumption about Rose's fate – she chose to honour the rational, benevolent woman she had once been, and not find out any more about Dr. Tyler's humiliating undoing.

And, as _sad_ as this revelation was, it was more frightening, than anything. If Martha could not martial her emotions and her fear and worries, who could say whether she would come unglued as Rose had? Then none of them stood a chance – not her, not the Doctor, and maybe not even Jack or his partner.

The way of the Doctor lies a bit of madness, Martha could see that now. But she could also see that she needed a plan that was sleeker and more concrete than the one she'd been executing. It had been good thus far, and it had worked as she had thought. But the Doctor had told her to go deep, and go big. She'd gone in already so deep she couldn't see her way out. But big… that was another matter. It _felt _big, this _Doctor Who_ story phenomenon, but not big enough. She needed some insurance. Perhaps it just needed to be a bit more organised.

Rose thought she could just love him. It wasn't enough.

Martha had thought the world could just know him. But that wasn't enough either. They had to _want_ to know him. They had to be impatient to see him, excited at the very thought of what might happen to him…

* * *

><p>"Tish?" Martha said into the phone as she paced about her flat. "Can you book yourself a few appearances on chat shows?"<p>

"Excuse me?"

"You're going to go on some chat shows and speak for me."

"I am?"

"Yes, who else could do it?"

"But… why?"

"I'll explain later. Just tell them who you are – they'll want to have you. Do, say, five shows in five weeks, spanning from mid-January into February. That'll be pretty good timing then. I'll tell you what to say."


	21. Chapter 21

TWENTY-ONE

"Good morning, my darling Great Britain, it's a lovely winter morning in London, unseasonably warm, and we have a major treat for you today," Eleanor Fenster said into the television cameras. She was small, blonde and wore a bright yellow suit with an orange scarf. If anyone had not been awake when they'd tuned in, they certainly were now. "Letitia Doaui is here, she is… drum roll please… the agent who represents the mysteriously talented Martha Jones!"

Of course, the channel had been advertising this fact all week, as two others had begun doing this morning, in anticipation of Tish's appearances on the next two chat shows she'd booked.

"And she's here to talk to us about her enigmatic client, and those wonderful _Doctor Who_ stories that we've all been riveted to. Alan, have you been reading this stuff? It's amazing, isn't it, it's addicting…"

After a couple of young actors from shows Martha had never seen appeared on the show, it was finally Tish's turn. It was a good sign that they had scheduled her as the last guest. They introduced her, and she came out looking great; confident and clever.

"So, Letitia Doaui," said Fenster. "Wow, it's so exciting to have you! Finally, a _real _connection to this unattainable figure, Martha Jones!"

Martha watched nervously, as she had her yoghurt and toast and tea. She wondered if the world's journalists would actually be disappointed to learn how _attainable_ Martha really was, how approachable and _human_.

"Thanks - I'm really excited to be here," Tish responded.

"So, let's cut right to it: who is Martha Jones?"

Tish laughed. "Oh, now, that wouldn't be sporting," she answered lightly. "If we wanted anyone to know that right now, she'd be here herself, wouldn't she?"

Fenster laughed her fake chat-show-host-laugh as well, conceding. "All right, fair enough. But you have seen her, in person, in the flesh?"

"Yes, I have."

"You know her, know she exists."

"Yes, I do."

There was a little pause while Fenster looked at Tish slyly. "Are _you_ Martha Jones?"

Tish laughed again. "No, absolutely not. But that's a great question!"

"Is Martha Jones her real name?"

"Now that, I cannot say," Tish answered deftly.

"Is Letitia Doaui _your_ real name?"

"Yes, it is," Tish answered.

Martha chuckled again. Doaui was Tish's middle name, so technically she hadn't told a lie.

After another four minutes of Tish silkily, vaguely ducking the questions, and only directly answering the ones that would benefit her and Martha, Tish finally got to the real "meat" of her visit.

"Well, you really are very tight-lipped, aren't you? You and your client both," said Fenster, a little bit frustrated with her interviewee.

"Yes, well, I did come here with a purpose," Tish told her, and the audience. "I do have an announcement about the _Doctor Who_ series."

"Oh?"

"Yes," Tish said. "I have been authorised to tell you that the saga will ultimately be the story of ten Doctors. Or, the first ten, anyway."

The crowd tittered a little bit.

"Ten Doctors?" asked Fenster. She looked into the camera to address her at-home audience. "Okay, so as most of the world knows, we're currently into the adventures of the Sixth Doctor." To Tish, she said, "So we're more than halfway done?"

"Not really. It's about half, exactly," Tish told her. "Because, the Tenth Doctor is special. His part of the story will take slightly longer to tell."

"How do you know all of this?"

"Martha Jones pulls my strings, Mrs. Fenster," Tish replied. "I do what she tells me to do, and say what she tells me to say."

"So, the message form Martha Jones is, there are ten Doctors, and something special will happen with the Tenth?"

"Yes, exactly," Tish confirmed.

"Marvellous," Fenster exclaimed. "That's been one of the big questions, as you probably know. The question of how many Doctors there can be, and how long the serial can last."

"Right, that's why I'm here," said Tish. "And there's one more thing."

"Is there?"

"Yes. Martha Jones would like you, and the British public, and the public throughout the world, to know: she will be revealing herself with the final instalment of the series."

There was a great big titter from the audience, and from Eleanor Fenster.

At last, the bustle died down. "How d'you mean, revealing herself?" asked the agitated hostess, rather more loudly than necessary.

"She will be revealing who she is," answered Tish, now the only calm person in the room. "She'll show her face, do an interview, answer questions…"

"So, she'll be coming on television to show us all who she is? We'll get to meet the real Martha Jones?"

"That's right. In June, when the final story is told, Martha will come into the light, as it were!"

There was a round of applause.

"Well again, that's marvellous!" commented Fenster. "What has made her decide to do this, after all this time?"

"Now that, I cannot say," Tish said. "Mostly because I don't know for certain."

* * *

><p>"Now, Letitia," said the male host of the second chat show, a week later. "How can we be sure that the woman who will show her face in June is the real Martha Jones? How do we know it's not some hoax with an actress?"<p>

"We've discussed that, Martha and I," said Tish. "By that, I mean, that given the fact that she's been so secretive thus far, she might be called upon to prove herself as the real Martha."

"And?"

"We give you our word."

"The word of two gentlewomen?"

"Absolutely," Tish nodded.

"Good enough for you?" the host asked his studio audience. There was a reserved round of applause, and the host said, "All right then. We'll take you at your word."

"Thank you. You can trust us, honestly. Neither of us has anything to gain by hiring an impostor."

"So Letitia, what else can you tell us, that we haven't already heard, concerning Martha Jones and the Doctor?"

"I can tell you that when Martha does appear on television, she will be bringing with her the final instalment of the series," Tish said, amid a sea of _ooh _and _aah_ from the audience. "Our plan is to deploy that final story all at once, when Martha gives the word, no matter what time zone, no matter what time."

"So you'll have booksellers and newsstands all over the world, watching," the host said. "Waiting for Martha to give permission for people to read it?"

"Yes," Tish answered simply.

The host gaped at her, incredulously. Then he laughed. "That's quite ambitious of you!"

"Well," Tish shrugged. "If they won't agree to it, then they won't get to sell it. Plain and simple."

* * *

><p>"Miss Doaui," said the hostess of the afternoon chat show, the third in Tish's little tour. She looked at Tish with a mixture or mischief and wonder.<p>

"Miss Glass," Tish responded in kind, returning the expression.

"One of the questions over the past week, as you must know as Miss Jones' agent is, what show will Martha appear on in June," Miss Glass asked. "Which channel, even?"

"I'm glad you asked that," Tish said. "The answer is: we don't know yet."

"Well, you must have representatives from umpteen different shows beating down your door!"

"We do, yes. But we have not committed to any of them."

"Why not? Holding out for the right bid, I'd assume," said Miss Glass, matter-of-factly.

"No, neither Martha nor I is concerned with money. Neither of us has accepted a penny for the stories, either," Tish confirmed.

The audience shifted in their seats. There had been rumours of this, but no-one, especially in the publishing and/or entertainment industry, could quite grasp it.

"Really? Now, it's been speculated that Miss Jones is not exactly getting rich over this, but… well, I don't think anyone believes she's not accepted any money _at all_."

"You can believe what you like," Tish told her calmly. "But I'm telling the truth."

"Well, if she's not accepting payment, then what is her motivation?"

Tish smiled in a way that let everyone know, much to the hostess' chagrin, that she knew the answer to the question, but would not say.

"Okay, then," Miss Glass continued, deciding to sidestep Tish's enigmatic expression. "Back to Martha's impending appearance… how will the two of you decide which channel and show that Martha will apppear on? I'd personally like to endorse ours!"

The audience laughed a bit, and there was half-hearted applause.

"The public will decide," Tish said.

"Pardon?"

"We're not married to the idea of using a _British_ show," Tish reported.

"But Martha Jones _is_ British, is she not?"

"She is. But the Doctor is not. The Doctor's story, as we have seen, transcends nation and race and language. Martha will go wherever she is called. America, France, South Africa, Guam – it's up to the readers."

"How do you plan on gaining momentum for that, or collecting results?"

"The system is under construction as we speak. We'll release more information as it becomes available."

"I'm sure you will," Miss Glass muttered, realising, like all the other hosts, that she was being used to mete out information, bit by bit. And whatever Letitia Doaui and Martha Jones had planned, it was going to be big.

* * *

><p>"Letitia Doaui, you're quite the PR pundit," said host number four, after Tish had skilfully refused to answer seven direct questions in a row.<p>

"Well, Matthew Connor," Tish said back, flirtatiously matching his use of her first and last name (or at least what everyone _thought_ was her first and last name). "That _is_ my job!"

"You do it well!" he exclaimed. "How about a round of applause for Letitia!"

The audience obliged, and applauded, apparently, Tish's ability to keep secrets and lack of willingness to crack under pressure.

"So is there any news on which chat show you'll be using, hint hint," he asked, winking at her.

"As a matter of fact, there is," she answered. Then she gave a web address. "It's a simple voting device – just type in the name of the chat show, which country, which channel or network. Then it will ask for your name and e-mail address, and your results will come to us. There's a spell-check thing, or a misspelling accommodator, or whatever it's called, so even if you get it a bit wrong, we'll still get the info."

"Brilliant."

"And the best part is, there is no limit to how many times you can vote!"

"Really?"

"Yes. The only thing is, you'll have to wait until next week to vote. Any votes cast before 11th February will not be counted."

"You heard it here, ladies and gents," said Connor. "Log in first thing on 11th Feburary, and vote for our show - seven or eight hundred times if it strikes your fancy!" The web address flashed on the screen, thus ensuring it would appear on every news show that night, and for the rest of the week.

* * *

><p>The fifth interview went very much like the first four. Each host knew that there were certain questions she wouldn't answer, but they asked anyway. Each host knew that there were certain ways of discussing the subject of <em>Doctor Who<em> and Martha Jones, without Letitia Doaui having to divulge anything unduly, and each had his or her creative way of doing so. And each knew, as did everyone in the world at this stage, that toward the end of the interview, she would reveal one more piece of the puzzle, one more thing that would make the public ravenous, and get them to act immediately, at the water cooler, at school, in chat rooms, clamouring for more.

"So, what have you got for us this time, Letitia?" asked Ed Fricker, the host of the final booking for Tish.

"Well, as most of you know, you can all begin voting for your favourite chat shows tomorrow," Tish answered. "Martha Jones will appear anywhere in the world, any channel, or in any language – we'll find an interpreter if we have to, it doesn't matter."

"Great."

"However… and this is mostly news that I've brought for you, Ed. We will be reporting our results to the PR departments of each of the shows that receive votes," she announced. "They will know how many votes they've received, and where they are in the running. We will do this every Monday afternoon."

"Amazing!" Fricker exclaimed. "What a brilliant idea. So every show will know where they stand in the fight to acquire the famous Martha Jones!"

* * *

><p>The following Monday morning, Martha stared at her computer screen, though she wasn't working on her <em>Doctor Who <em>story as she should have been. She was watching the votes mount, and watching the statistics come up on ninety-eight different chat shows worldwide.

"Tish, how the hell are we supposed to report all of these results? I suppose we could make ninety-eight phone calls, but… it's just going to get worse, and I can't do this, and keep up with writing, all at the same time," Martha complained.

"I guess I'll have to call in a few more favours," said Tish.

"Oh, lovely."

"Well, if you don't want me to, feel free to start dialling."

"No, no, do what you have to do. Just… never, ever tell me about these favours of yours."

Tish gave her a dirty look and made a call.

The result was four computer science graduate students, one friend of Tish's and three of _his _friends, put upon the task of cataloguing the results. They were also charged with cataloguing the PR departments' contact information via e-mail or phone, and making the information available to various television pundits throughout the world before midnight on Monday, GMT.

What ensued was an all-out campaign by each of the shows that had received results. They began offering incentives for the person who provided them with the most votes. The top shows in Britain, the U.S., Canada and Australia were the front-runners, and were therefore running the most aggressive campaigns. Eleanor Fenster's show was offering a free iPod to whomever voted for her show the most often. Matthew Connor was offering an all-expenses-paid weekend in Brittany. A couple of American shows were offering to let the winning voter appear on the show, and in Australia, a couple of them were promising clean copies of all the stories, autographed by Martha Jones herself (even though Martha had made no such promise).

Twenty or thirty programmes in Western Europe joined in the fight, two in India, five in Japan, ten in various places in South America, and a few from remote, oddball places all round the globe. Just about every region of the world was represented, even places where they didn't use any one of the four languages in which the stories had been printed. The phenomenon was enormous, and the campaign forced them to up the ante each week, for the most fabulous prizes, and to vie for the most popular guests, to get people to watch, and to hear the newest bribe to the viewers. And there was something to be said for viewer loyalty, after all.

Each week it got bigger and badder, the competition got stiffer, and the four grad students became eight, and then twelve. The results registered in the hundreds of millions, and they became more and more difficult to track. Martha, however, didn't care how accurate the results actually were; she was only concerned with the lust, the fever, the furor over the Doctor.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, Tish had been busying herself with all of the various magazine publishers round the world. She was asking for certified, notarised copies from each individual publisher, and each of their individual carriers, that they would not release any publication containing the final <em>Doctor Who<em> story until Martha Jones, appearing on an as-yet unknown television show, gave the definitive command. It was not to be like "Midnight Magic," Harry Potter-style. It was all to be deployed at the same moment, everywhere in the world, regardless of the hour.

It was more perfect a scenario than Martha could ever have hoped for, and the public and the chat shows were creating the frenzy all on their own. All she had to do from here on out was write, and hope.

If she survived this, she knew she'd owe Tish her life, and so would the Doctor.


	22. Chapter 22

**A couple of people have pointed out that writing stories is a much "cushier" gig than walking around the world. Well, I'd have to agree! But you know, a lot of the stuff that goes on in "this" world is much "cushier" than what happens in the Doctor's world. I'd rather deal with hospital administrator bureaucrats than actual Daleks, any day! :-) Also, reality is a funny thing, isn't it?**

* * *

><p><span>TWENTY-TWO<span>

It was a joke amongst Americans, Brits and Australians who were bitter about not winning the appearance, that _of course_ the Canadians had put in enough votes to get Martha Jones on _Good Morning Toronto_, because there was absolutely nothing better to do in Canada. So, it was ultimately in the Great White North where Martha would land on 20th June, 2008, to appear for the first time in public.

In reality, though, some Canadian media-types had started a campaign early on, arguing that it would simply be an honour and a coup for Canada to win the apperance at all. So after a month-long in-house campaigning process amongst different Canadian shows, the whole country began putting all of their support behind a single little chat show; it became all of Canada against each of the other single chat shows worldwide. None of the others stood a chance, once the Canadians gained momentum, not that that stopped the rest of the world from trying.

None of the non-English-speaking countries were particularly surprised to have lost the bid for Martha Jones' first television appearance (except for the Japanese, who were crushed, and who were making loud and bitter pleas on Youtube, even after the winning chat show had been announced). But it had been fun, and people all over the world had won cool stuff for the simple act of sitting in front of the computer and typing in the same information over and over again.

_Good Morning Toronto _aired at eight in the morning, Central Standard Time. That was nine in New York, two in the afternoon in London, three in Paris. It would be one in the morning, the following day, in Tokyo, and two a.m. in Sydney. But regardless of the time, book stores and news stands across the world were hiring security to beat back crowds, and had hooked their televisions up to satellite links, in order to see the moment, first-hand, when Martha Jones appeared to the world, and then gave the word to release the final _Doctor Who _instalment.

Some stores had turned it into a party, a money-making gambit, offering to sell Polaroid photos of people with their heads sticking out of blue police boxes made of cardboard. In California, as a promotion for the early-bird, six a.m. event, some book store cafés had named various high-octane espresso drinks after the different Doctors and companions, for one day only. Reprints of the previous stories were selling like hotcakes as people waited, trying to tide themselves over with older chapters, to ease their hunger. Because if they'd been anxious before, they were positively ravenous now.

For, as planned carefully by _Doctor Who's_ illustrious author, the public had fallen particularly in love with the story of the Tenth Doctor and the companion modeled after Rose Tyler (though Martha had changed her name, as she had all the others), that diamond in the rough who had pulled the Ninth Doctor through some pretty tough times. For it seemed that after nine hundred years of knocking about time and space in that old ship of his, being friends with a motley assortment of dozens of humans, aliens, and everything in between, the Tenth Doctor had _finally _managed to fall in love. Martha had been careful to write their separation as utterly _devastating_, as annihilating as the Dalek apocalypse she had created as the backdrop. She wanted the reader to gasp when they read of their favourite companions' fate. She managed to tear them apart most hideously, and give them a final moment of heartbreak, in which they never manage to quite say goodbye properly, and their feelings and whatever defined their relationship was left up in the air. Does he love her? Of course, but he never has a chance to say so, and now, she'll never know for sure.

Given this heartrending penultimate chapter, the public were wondering if the Doctor could ever travel with anyone ever again. Could he love again? Would it even be _fair _of him to love again, after having had such a beautiful interval with that extraordinary girl from the council estates? How could he find someone new, and not betray her? Would he ever trust anyone again? Would he ever be whole again?

* * *

><p>"Well, folks, it's June 20th, and the moment is almost here…" the Canadian hostess said. But before they could get to Martha's appearance, they had to stall, and fill time, show footage of the frenzy for the second-to-last instalment. They did a montage of people throwing reading parties, dressing up as Martha had described the Doctors in her stories. They showed interviews of highly emotional fans from various places around the world, and gave statistics of sales of the magazines that printed the stories, as well as various products (woolen scarves, Cricket sweaters, jellied sweets, Chuck Taylor-style trainers, for example) whose sales had gone up as a result.<p>

After nearly a half hour of hemming and hawing, the male host of the show, alongside his co-hostess, announced that the moment had come. "Here she is, ladies and gentlemen, in the flesh, fresh off a plane from London, and no doubt knackered, the talented, the mysterious, the wonderful Martha Jones!"

Martha appeared on the sound stage looking happy and calm, wearing a pair of jeans, high-heeled boots, a lavender top and her favourite red leather jacket. An uproar of applause came from the studio audience (all of whom had paid through the nose to get in), and in all of the gatherings round the world. It took a full four minutes for the applause to die, and for Martha to stop shushing the audience and blushing, before she finally sat down with her hosts for a proper chat.

"Martha, Martha, Martha," said the host. "Is it really you?"

"It is," she said, smiling. "Thank you for having me on your show, I really appreciate it."

There was applause.

"Well no, thank _you_ for coming!" he exclaimed back at her.

"I have to say, Miss Jones, you are not what I was expecting!" the hostess added.

"Really? What were you expecting?"

"I don't know," she answered. "Someone… plain! And pasty white from sitting in the dark writing stories all the time!"

"Especially since we knew you were British!" the host added, amid a sea of laughter from an over-excited audience.

Martha chuckled. "Well, sorry to disappoint."

"Trust us, Miss Jones," said the host. "You could have looked like Sontaran or a Slitheen, and you couldn't have disappointed us! But seeing you… you are absolutely spectacular."

The audience rose up in agreeance.

"Thank you, that's very kind. Actually, now you mention it," Martha corrected. "It's Dr. Jones."

"Really!" the hostess nearly shouted, almost launching herself off the sofa, genuinely surprised.

"Yep," Martha answered. "M.D. from Cambridge five years ago. But go ahead and call me Martha."

"Well, this islucky! We were going to ask you to tell us more about yourself," the hostess chirped. "Please, do tell us more!"

"Okay, erm… well, I'm a Capricorn, I enjoy snorkeling and I'm a ham radio enthusiast."

The audience and the hosts laughed, as did Martha.

"Actually, none of that's true – except for the Capricorn part. Really, I'm a psychiatrist by training, only became a writer a little while back," Martha explained. "A year ago, to be exact."

"You mean you'd never written fiction before?"

"No, never. I'd never been interested in… well, the _arts and letters_, I suppose you could call it. I'd been a science geek my whole life – did science camps when I was small, did summer internships as a teen-ager in hospitals, made my dad go with me to find insects, whenever we were in the country. Oh, and I repeatedly forced my sister to pretend to be my patient!"

"Oh, you have a sister?"

"Yes, her name is Tish," Martha said slyly. "You know her as Letitia Doaui."

There was an uproar at this revelation, followed by applause.

"So, the two of you concocted this scheme together, the Jones sisters?"

"No, I concocted. Tish was just kind enough to help, and clever enough to make it work."

"I'd say both of you are mighty clever, Dr. Jones," the hostess pointed out cheerfully.

"Now, you said you had a surprise for us," the host said to Martha.

"Yes," she said. "I'd like us all to begin the final adventure together. I'd like to read a bit from the beginning of the final episode, read it aloud to you before the story is released..."

"Wonderful!"

"It's a way of... I don't know, communing with the readers, making up for lost time, maybe as a thank-you to everyone who has stuck with the stories, I suppose. I guess I thought you all might like to hear how it sounds to me, how it sounds in my head. I don't know – does that interest you at all?" she asked the audience.

They replied with a resounding cheer, and someone came onstage and handed Martha a magazine. She opened it to a marked page, and began reading aloud.

"_It was an ordinary morning for a medical student in central London. Clouds were gathering in the heavens and her family was screaming from all directions, jamming up the city's mobile phone networks, but what else was new? She was anticipating a day of walking rounds with Mr. Stoker, mild verbal abuse at his hands, followed by lunch, then clinicals in the afternoon. Tonight, she'd attend her brother's twenty-first birthday party with a warring mum and dad, a snippety sister and God knew how many of his drunken loading-dock friends._

"_Her stride, like her thoughts, was interrupted by a tall man in a suit. He stopped in front of her, looked her in the eyes, and took off his tie._

"'_See, like so,' he said cheerfully, as though the medical student before him had any clue who he was, or what he meant._

"_Then he turned on his heel and walked away. He was a handsome enough man – tall, thin, deep brown eyes, well-coiffed and lightly, pleasantly, scented. At that moment, though, she did not feel anything for him other than amusement. It would be a bit later, much, much higher and much further away that the two of them would find reasons to feel. And run and scream and kiss and gasp and die."_

Martha stopped reading and closed the magazine. When she looked up, the expressions of anticipation on the audience's face was truly startling. A round of enthusiastic applause broke out then.

"Thank you for that, Martha," the host said.

"Wonderful, wonderful stuff. Truly. But _kiss and gasp and die?_" asked the hostess, quoting Martha's writing. She clutched melodramatically at her heart. "That's some powerful imagery! Are we to understand that the Doctor will find a new romance?"

Martha smiled. The Doctor would not. But she wasn't going to tell them that. "You'll have to wait and see!"

"And... is this the end of the Doctor? Will he die once and for all? Languish in a big gasp?"

She tried to keep smiling. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

She realised after she said it that it came out sounding just a bit too serious. But the audience didn't seem to catch it, and they laughed.

"So, Martha, if you'd been, in your words, a science geek, your whole life, what prompted this sudden change of _métier_, as it were?"

Martha gulped. The time had come.

The reason for all of her efforts was staring her in the face – she had been asked directly. The host and hostess, all of Toronto, all of Canada, all of the world, wanted to know why. Why would an otherwise empirically-minded woman suddenly turn to such a visceral undertaking? Why would a scientist suddenly take on an art form? What was the message, the motivation, the epiphany that brought her to that point?

In answer to the question she'd been asked, she answered simply, in a quavering voice, "Love."

The host and hostess waited for her to elaborate. The world waited, but that's all she said.

"Love?" he asked, finally.

"Yes."

"For whom? Or for what?"

She swallowed hard, holding back a scream, holding back tears, holding back the love and anger exploding inside her that she had not allowed herself to acknowledge in months. And from here on out, everything had to go right, or it would all go wrong, and a whole year's worth of effort would go to pieces.

"For the Doctor," she answered quietly.

There was silence in the studio, and in pockets of crowds everywhere, where people wanted to know. Some of them began to suspect that her writings were the products of a mild lunacy.

Finally, she looked into the camera and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, I think it's almost time to open the final instalment of the _Doctor Who_ series. But before you do, before you embark on that final journey with the Doctor, before you let him whisk you away into the night for another set of adventures, just take a moment to think."

More silence. Small murmurs held the space, but that was all. The planet was listening.

"Think about our Earth, and the violence and disaster it has seen. Not just at the hands of man, but churning in the Earth and sky itself. Think about it. Think about your darkest hour, the misery that looms just beyond that little door where you choose to lock it away. Think about what happens when you can't put it aside anymore – and then think of the Doctor. What does he do, when the violence and disaster strikes? What does he do when the darkest hours come? Does he shrink away?"

It felt in the studio like a prayer, and the world was now meditating.

"It might seem too big to handle, too abstract... but what I want you to understand is, it's not just the story of a remarkable man," Martha continued. "It's a plea. The Doctor asks you every month, in every story, to take him into your lives, and reserve a special place for him inside your heart. Not for the man who wears a scarf or plays the recorder, or swaggers about in his leather jacket, but for what he stands for. The Doctor is good. He is compassion. He is patience. He is love. And he exists. If you let him."

By now, Martha's voice had been reduced to a whisper, and it was breaking.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my readers, this has been a phenomenon that has succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. Why has it been so popular? Why has it worked its way into your consciousness, so much so that you are waiting overnight in book stores for your copy, and having theme parties, and crying on television, when you're asked about it? I say, this started out as a fun little foray into science fiction, but it has ended up as a meditation on something much more. The Doctor has shown you yourselves, and you like what you see. Tell me, do you think you can accept that the Doctor exists? Look deep inside. Can you find him? Think good, compassion, patience, love. Can you accept it?"

In the studio, people were answering reverently, "Yes," they could feel him, find him within themselves. The hosts were saying _most definitely_, they could feel him.

Martha smiled softly at the cameras. "Good. Remember that when you read the final chapter. You'll find that the Doctor is trapped at the hands of someone evil, and he'll need that goodness… and _you_ need to feel it, or he'll never be free. Not _to_ you. Not _within_ you. I need you to believe, and the Doctor needs you to believe."

Martha felt that if she said anymore, it would be too much. So, the time was now.

"Booksellers, newsstands, please release to your public the final chapter of _Doctor Who._"

In the studio, stagehands came down the aisles with boxes of a particular magazine, and they were handed out to audience members, and to the hosts of the show.

As this happened, Martha spoke again. "As you open the magazines, everyone, as you take those final pages in your fingers, and devour the words, just take one final moment. The Doctor. His spirit of compassion and honour and wisdom. Love the Doctor, and let him in."

All over the world, people listened, and thought, if only vaguely, of Martha's words. A new journey... a new place, another time... the Doctor. Love the Doctor.

Martha Jones, relieved and exhausted, closed her eyes.


	23. Chapter 23

**This is the second-to-last chapter! It was going to be the last, but... well, it just didn't feel organic to wrap EVERYTHING up in one big package. So stay tuned for Chapter 24 soon, and then our fun foray into Ward 40 will be finished!**

**You know, sometimes when I have an idea for a fic, I absolutely know where it's going, how it's going to end and what's going on in-between. I love when that happens. But this was not one of those times! This started out as a CONCEPT: the Doctors are patients, their companions are their shrinks, peripheral companions are nurses and orderlies, all of the adventures and threats are part of the "real" world, etc. I skipped the whole exposition about how Verity Lambert set up the Ward for her husband... and thank goodness, because it would have taken the story, and my confusion, in a whole different direction. **

**For a while, I thought it might end with a bona-fide haunting/exorcism kind of thing, then, I thought it would end with something like a Creation Myth of the Time Lords, their consciousnesses and their bodies. I really wanted to end with 10's death and with Amelia Pond hauling in the 11th patient, but that would have made Martha's part of the story either go totally off the rails, or go on for longer than I was willing to allow!**

**So I'm admitting that for quite some time, appallingly recently, in fact, I haven't known exactly where this story was going! (Don't judge me!) Usually, when I feel that way, it comes to me before too long, but I'll tell ya - I was afraid this one would die in the water!**

**Well, when you read these final chapters, I hope you don't feel as though it DID die in the water. And if you feel a little confused after this one, fear not, the Doctor will explain all in Chapter 24! Thanks, as always, for reading!**

* * *

><p><span>TWENTY-THREE<span>

Hovering somewhere high above the Earth, a tiny, tiny man sat in a bird cage, looking toward the window. Today, he could no longer see through it, nor move freely enough to try. But he had spent the past three-hundred-sixty-five days at that window, intermittently watching the world come crashing down beneath him. It was a world that, not so long ago, he'd have been able to save. He had watched an innocent family enslaved and degraded, and a close friend repeatedly killed. He had been made frail and helpless and imprisoned. But none of that seemed to bother him, because he had been the victim of a cruel joke for a very long time.

That outrageous, childish despot had kept Jack and the Jones family under lock and key, in the shackles of servitude, fear and humiliation. But he had kept the Doctor in a different kind of lock, as if ageing him had not rendered him benign enough. Reality had been blipping in and out – mostly out. And behind his glassy, exhausted eyes, forty-five years had passed. One year to everyone else, forty-five for him, with only very brief, very infrequent, periods of rest. Years, sometimes _decades_ would pass before he'd get a break, only so the Master could mock him or threaten his loved ones. He was a Time Lord on the slow path. He was stuck in a cycle of madness, life and death for _forty-five_ long years. And he'd felt every slow, contained second of it.

He never forgot who or where he was, but occasionally in that time, he had hope of survival or escape. But he came to realise reluctantly what he'd really known all along: that there could be neither of those things without _her. _So he'd been forced to watch as all the others faltered and fell in his path, just to get to the day when Martha Jones would show her lovely face.

He only wished the Master hadn't dragged her into it.

* * *

><p>In the studio in Canada, she had closed her eyes.<p>

_I know I said it wasn't about you, Mr. Saxon, but I'm thinking of you now. You're almost an innocent bystander in all of this – almost. I've thought before that I should actually thank you for tearing my world asunder, and giving me the strength to talk to the world. I don't know how you will figure into all of this when reality reveals itself, but I've made a guess, and I think I'm right. I won't blame you. I won't judge you. I won't deal with you at all. That is for the Doctor to do. What happens to you lies in his hands._

_I don't know if you know that they're not just stories. It doesn't matter, really. I knew what would happen once the magazines got hold of them – I had faith. The Doctor taught me to have faith, so I knew. Don't you want to know what I was doing, sitting there at my computer for a year, running my poor sister ragged with phone calls? I told a story. That's all. No weapons, just words. I said what the Doctor did. I reached across the continents just with an idea. And everywhere it went, it found people, touched them. The Doctor found them. And I kept them talking for a whole year, wanting more, wanting and needing a hero._

_Faith and hope – I believe you underestimate the power of these things, Mr. Saxon. But that's not all. Because I gave them an instruction. I used the Doctor's words to guide me. I made them wait for the final instalment, so that everyone would think of him at one specific time. One thought, at one moment, almost a billion people. Readers and gawkers alike. Meditation… I'm not much of a Buddhist, but they say it transcends worlds, like a telepathic field binding the whole human race together. I hope twenty per cent of the population will do it. I guess we're about to find out…_

* * *

><p>Martha's world was changing. It had been for quite some time.<p>

In fact, every day it changed.

When she opened her eyes, there was no Canadian audience in front of her. Just a desperate, thin man in a black suit.

"Don't you want to know what I was doing, travelling the world?" she asked him.

_Where did that come from?_ she wondered.

He shrugged in annoyance. "Tell me."

Visions of a hard, miserable life flashed through her mind. Extreme cold, extreme hot. Hiding, ducking, running for her life. Working her fingers to the bone in a concentration camp and refusing – _refusing, damn it _– to cry. Buoyed only by love, strength imbued in her by the Doctor, and the knowledge that it wasn't just _his _life she was saving, but the world.

Who's story was _that?_

It was hers.

She shook away the confusion and spoke to the Master.

"I told a story, that's all. No weapons, just words. I did just what the Doctor said," she explained, though the despot remained unimpressed. "I went across the continents all on my own. And everywhere I went, I found the people and I told them my story. I told them about the Doctor, and I told them to pass it on, to spread the word so that _everyone_ would know about the Doctor."

_I did?_ she asked herself.

_I did. _

"Faith and hope?" he whined at her, mockingly. "Is that all?"

"No, 'cause I gave them an instruction," she told him, boldly getting to her feet, standing tall for the first time in a year. "Just as the Doctor said. I told them that if everyone thinks of one word at one specific time…"

"Nothing will happen!" he shouted. "Is that your weapon? Prayer?"

"Right across the world, one word, just one thought at one moment," she said. Then added, "But with fifteen satellites!"

_Oh yes – satellites. I remember them. And the spheres._

Now she had his attention. "What?" he asked.

Jack, from the sidelines, chimed in. "The Archangel Network." He looked dirty and beaten and defeated, as though he'd been killed a hundred times over…

_That's right – he's not Harold Saxon, not a standard-issue narcissist. He's a psychopath. _

She looked at the tiny figure in the bird cage to her right, his large, tearful eyes constantly pleading, and looking at her with hope. In that moment, she knew everything.

Two worlds came crashing together in her mind. An abused man sitting alone in a room, having hope that his doctor would rescue him, and a Time Lord having been shrunk into nothing, knowing that his companion had the right tools to save the world. The _story_ of the Doctor, the _reality_ of the Doctor. The hospital, the beloved blue vessel. The world of Dr. Jones, psychiatrist and caretaker to a delusional patient, and the world of Martha Jones, medical student and faithful companion to the last noble Time Lord in existence.

The bestselling magazine serial, and the trek across the Earth.

It was all there, swirling and bubbling in her brain.

And she kept talking, because the world was making sense again. "A telepathic field, binding the whole human race together. With all of them, every single person on Earth, thinking the same thing at the same time. And that word is _Doctor!"_

Otherworldly tendrils of light began forming round the cage, encompassing the little body inside.

The Master began to shout, "Stop it! No, no, no, no you don't!"

The clock was ticking – only a few moments left. Everyone in the room had concentrated on one thought. _The Doctor_. They chanted his name like a chorus.

"Stop this right now! Stop it!" the Master screamed.

The tiny Doctor seemed to heal with the light, and he stood up to his full height. Though, his face and posture were still those of a 100-year-old man. "I've had a whole year to tune myself into the psychic network and integrate myself with its matrices."

The Master was still yelling fruitlessly. "I order you to stop!"

Chanting continued all over the world as people watched the countdown, and remembered Martha Jones' stories. The chanting continued in this room on the Valiant. Martha caught a chill when Lucy Saxon, the woman who had been at the Master's side, however reluctantly, throughout this insane year, began chanting as well. "Doctor, Doctor, Doctor…"

And the Doctor, feeling their hope, their strength, the worldwide belief in him, in his goodness and compassion and patience, feeling them _finding him within_, began to change further.

"The one thing you can't do," he said to the Master. He paused as his old, wrinkled face was restored to its familiar, youthful glow. Then he finished his thought: "Is stop them thinking."

The tendrils and fields of light did not stop curling round the Doctor's handsome head and body, and to everyone's surprise, his feet began to lift off the floor. "Tell me the human race is degenrate now, when they can do this!"

The Doctor had him. Martha almost fainted with relief. He was back, and she was no longer upholding the weight of the world with just her legs and shoulders… or her words. She allowed herself to turn away and run to hug her family.

"No!" the Master cried out, and fired two laser beams at the Doctor.

The forcefield of faith protected the Doctor, and he deflected the weapon effortlessly. The Master aimed his weapon at the Jones family, and the Doctor, just as effortlessly, disarmed him.

"You know what happens now," said the Doctor.

"No, no, no, no!"

The Doctor slid forward and seemed to shake off the glow, just as his worn-in trainers' rubber padded softly on the floor. He took a few strides forward as the Master cowered against a wall. The Doctor knelt and put his arms around his greatest enemy and whispered, "I forgive you."

* * *

><p>The Doctor ordered Jack into the cargo hold to rescue the TARDIS from the paradox machine, and followed the Master through the Vortex to someplace unknown, and then back again. The Doctor, like Martha, had used <em>words<em> to foil the Master, and then, unlike Martha, turned time on its ear.

As the Year of the Master rushed backward and became the Year That Never Was, Martha held onto the Doctor's hands gratefully, but felt a kind of loss. It had been a horrible year trekking across the world, populations in peril, alien spheres killing and maiming and terrifying – she was glad to let all of that go by the wayside.

But something was ebbing away. She _had_ spent time in a hospital, hadn't she? She had gone deep into files and history, and had learned about different men… or, was it the same man? Were they all strangers to her, just detaced pieces of the past, or was it all the long, long life of a man she loved more than she could say? She had spent some time recalling his life's story and sharing it with a happier world, a world that did not need saving, but perhaps just needed a good hero in its heart. It had been a world that could be _joyful_ about the Doctor, and not just cling to him as its only hope in a harsh, horrible reality. She had _tuned into _him and insinuated all of his incarnations into her life. She had heard the voices and communed with the Doctor's other beloved companions, and as time turned back, she struggled to hold on.

Because though the world of the psychiatrist Martha Jones was fading, and starting to seem like a cruel fantasy, she knew: Dr. Jones, the brand-new worldwide fiction author, would have come through it whole, her heart and love intact, her friends and family safe, her patient healthy and comfortably delusional.

But Martha Jones, the global soldier, had come through it fractured. Her heart was hardened, and her love had grown hurtful and disillusioned. Her friends and family were damaged, and her Doctor, as she well knew, never came through _anything_ without a bit more baggage.

And this time, it would be big, bad, epic, worlds-weeping for the last of the Time Lords baggage. Because no matter what happened to the Master, the Doctor would have to decide.

* * *

><p>Martha sat up on the side of a hill, a safe distance from the fire, even though there was no fire yet. The immortal Jack Harkness, Captain of Who Knew What, sat beside her. They watched the Doctor's shadow below, standing where it had been for the past forty-five minutes, absolutely still but for the breeze blowing the corners of his brown coat.<p>

She wondered where the other Martha was. She wondered if she'd gone home for a good sleep, then seen her patient back to Ward 40, and resumed her duties. Or had time been tipped back in that world as well, and was she somehow getting on with life with her patient, as though nothing strange had happened? Or, had her patient been cured by the outpouring of love from all over the world, and had they gone home _together_, to start something new, just the two of them, with no nurses or orderlies or narratives to complete? Did she finally get to learn _who he was_, and who he had been before?

She liked that idea, of course, but she shook it off. She knew the truth. Still, she couldn't help but wonder what had happened when she'd abandoned the other reality.

And now that the dust had settled, what was it? What had caused it? Would she ever find a link again, or was it gone completely? Would she ever be able to share it, or would she have to keep it to herself for always?

On a whim, at last, she asked, "Jack, were you there?"

"Was I where?" he asked, absently.

She wasn't sure what to say. The only thing she could think was, "In the hospital."

He was silent for a long time. He finally took a deep, harried breath and answered, "A little bit, yeah."

She hadn't expected that. In spite of her question, she felt she'd been grasping at straws, and she fully expected to have to explain herself, and tell Jack what had happened and where she had been, when she wasn't walking around the world.

"You were?"

"Yeah," he said. "But just towards the end, after Sally Sparrow left."

It took her breath away.

"So you… you know? I mean… you were there with the Doctor at Saxon's house, with all the TV cameras and stuff?"

"Not for most of it," Jack told her. "The Master wanted me here, conscious most of the time, so he could kill me. I blipped in and out, especially if I was dead for a while."

"When the Doctor had that talk with you, thanked you for taking care of him, were you there?"

"Yes, I was there for that, but I didn't understand."

"Wow. Jack, honestly, I hadn't seen that coming. I just asked because…"

"Because you weren't sure how else to begin to talk about it?"

"Yeah!" she answered.

"Yeah," he echoed, though more sombrely. "But clearly _you_ understood."

"I did, but I don't know why."

He smiled at her. "It'll come to you."

"You know why?"

"I have a theory," Jack told her with a wink.

The pyre suddenly went up in flames, and the fire danced up to the sky. The Doctor turned his back on it and began trudging back to the TARDIS in the shadows.

"Go talk to him," Jack said.

"We can talk to him together," she suggested. "Aren't you curious?"

"Yes," he smiled. "But it's okay – I know you'd rather be alone with him. We're about a half-mile from a roadside stop with a coffee shop. It's up that way, to the north. Just come pick me up when you're done."


	24. Chapter 24

**Final chapter, y'all. Thank you so much for staying with me! This was a _difficult_ journey!**

**As you finish the story, please read the author's note at the end.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><span>TWENTY-FOUR<span>

Martha closed the TARDIS door behind her. The Doctor was standing near the console, staring into the time rotor. The great, bright column of light at the centre was burning, good as new, and getting stronger.

"Can you feel it slipping away?" asked the Doctor.

"Yes," Martha answered, knowing exactly what he meant. Something in her mind was unravelling; something foreign was being replaced by something familiar. "Will I forget it all soon?"

He turned and faced her, and crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't know if you'll ever forget it all," he said. "But it will fade over time."

"A lot of it already has."

He nodded. "That's probably good. We're back to the summer of 2007. You've already lived the coming year twice, and you're about to live it again. How many realities do you really want in there?"

She smiled. "I guess you're right – it's good that I can feel... I can't really describe it."

"You're feeling his grip dissipate," he said. "In a way."

"It was all him?" she asked. "The Master?"

"Yep. He had a telepathic hold on me. Time Lords have been known to do it to each other, usually for evil rather than for good, but it's not an exact science, though. It was a kind of torture, forcing me to live out my entire life that way... abbreviated of course. His mistake was that he couldn't leave himself out of it."

"How do you mean?"

"If he could have just let it go on without the Harold Saxon figure kidnapping the patient, then Dr. Jones would never have had any reason to find out how to break the spell, as it were. We could have been held in that world indefinitely. Fortunately, either his ego wouldn't allow it, or he literally couldn't help it because of some psychic debris. But, doesn't matter, does it? Because now we're here. We're back."

"Forty-five years trapped in a little rubber room," Martha mused.

"Yep."

"Why forty-five? Why start you out in 1963?"

"I don't know exactly," admitted the Doctor. "Maybe there's some cosmic significance to the number one-thousand-nine-hundred-sixty-three, or to the number forty-five... or maybe it's because it's where my life as I know it began. I was knocking about in 1963 when the first humans who travelled with me sort of wandered into my path. Ian and Barbara... they came looking for Susan, and my life was never the same."

"Really?" she asked. "You really had a granddaughter named Susan?"

He nodded, but didn't look her in the eye. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat.

"Why didn't you say anything to anyone? Why did you act delusional all that time?"

He sighed and looked at her as if to say, _come on, why do you think?_ "Because, Martha," he said. "What does a doctor do when a patient says, _I'm not sick, I don't belong here!_ What would you have done?"

"You _did _say that to me, and I believed you," she reminded him.

"Because you'd already known it somewhere deep down, for a while," he said. "And there were... well, other factors involved, other things that let you see through to the truth. Or at least _feel _the truth."

"Like what?"

"We don't need to discuss that now. All I'm saying is, not every psychiatrist I had would have believed it. And think about if I'd said that to you in the first month you were there? You'd have just stuck me back in that room and put me under surveillance or something. That's the last thing I needed."

"That's true," she confessed. "It's exactly what I would have done. And you never forgot who you were? Where you were really?"

He shook his head. Then, he stared off into space, almost wistfully, remembering. "That world was throwing things at me like crazy, things that were meant to be reminders of the life I'd led. And with each reminder, I decided to sort of re-live the adventure with my shrink, my companion, at my side. What else was I going to do? If I tried to escape, they'd just catch me with a butterfly net and put me back. Most of those bodies weren't in any shape to be outrunning orderlies anyway."

"So, every adventure you had was you, tugging on your companion, willing them to notice it wasn't real?"

"Sort of – at least at first. As time went on, though, I just resigned myself to knowing that if the psychiatrists kept accurate records of our times together, eventually, you'd read them, and learn more about me, and... you would work it out."

"You knew I'd come along," she said with a little smirk.

"Of course. Each doctor or nurse that took care of me, I recognised. Every one of them had been a companion or helper or something to me. And when one would leave, I always knew who would turn up next. And even weirder, I usually knew when it was time to die, and how it should happen."

"My God," she mused.

"And..." he took a deep breath and leaned on the console. "At a few points throughout that time, I had hope of escape. At least in the sense that I could get out of that world. I'd still have the Master to deal with in _this _world, but... I wanted out of there, and I thought..." he trailed off.

"...that Sarah Jane could help, perhaps?"

"Yes. She had the potential to work out the truth... I could see it in her. I had just started planting the seeds, when they fired her. And damn it, I knew it was going to happen! I knew when I left with my 'family' that she wouldn't be there when I got back, and that I wouldn't see her again for really long time. I just couldn't act fast enough. And Rose... oh, she got _so close_, but... wow, what a mess that was."

"Yeah, she kind of lost control, didn't she?"

He chuckled. "Yeah, you could say that. I don't know what she was thinking."

"She thought she could love you enough to make the trap go away."

"She did?"

"Yes. Except... she hadn't identified what the trap was. She knew something wasn't right, she knew you were confined somehow, but I don't think she ever fully understood that the Doctor was real. At least, that's what I got from her narratives."

"And... in the same way you knew that getting a billion people to think about me would free me, she thought that she could just... love me?"

"I think so."

"Love me, how?"

"I don't know. Tried not to think about it too hard."

The Doctor thought about this revelation concerning the psychiatrist version of Rose. "Blimey, that's... a little bit dark, somehow."

"I just thought it was sad. I felt awful for her. I never read to the end of her story," Martha told him. "I didn't want to know. I thought it would be like a betrayal or something, knowing how horribly her time with you ended."

"When she first came in, I... I had mixed feelings. I was glad to see her, but I was fairly certain it wouldn't end well. Just plain old history told me that, my memories of her... I knew it would be a disaster in the end."

"I wonder if I got it right," Martha said, more to herself than to him. "The ending of Rose's part of my fiction stories in that world."

"I reckon you probably did... you were, in a way, extracting things directly from my mind. Did she get sealed off in another world, on the other side of a dimensional void, in your story?"

"Yes!"

"And was there a beach, with a hologram?"

"Yes!"

"That's it. Those were my last glimpses of her." He was speaking surprisingly matter-of-factly about this fairly recent heartbreak. Though, Martha reckoned, it had now been forty-five years, for him, since it happened. Perhaps the wounds were not so fresh anymore.

"Anyway, I didn't know it when she first arrived as my caretaker," the Doctor continued. "But over time I began to sense the same thing in her, as in Sarah Jane. I tried to help her see through reality, tried to have hope, but it seemed to backfire. Horribly. And there wasn't much I could do to stop it, so I just had to watch while she effectively destroyed herself. And when she started to lose it, Martha, that's when I knew. There could be no escape without you. It had to be you."

She smiled. "Well, you knew it was me out there walking around the world."

"Yes. And I knew you'd see through reality as Rose had, but that you'd have more tools to work with, thanks partly to Rose herself. She helped you know what not to do."

"But... Doctor, why could she and I and Sarah Jane see it?" she demanded. "What makes us so special? I know you said there were factors involved, but..."

"Martha," he stopped her. He gazed at her for a long time, waiting for her to catch up. But she didn't seem to understand. So he asked, "Okay, let's say I was going to die. Soon, and forever. I'm going to drop dead in two minutes and never regenerate, and we'll never see each other again. What would you like to say to me?"

"Excuse me?"

"What's the one thing you'd want to say, the thing you'd most want me to know before I died?"

A realisation hit her. Her eyes flickered, and something heavy hit her low in the stomach.

"Do you see?" he asked, his eyes pleading with her to see it, so he wouldn't have to explain it further.

She saw. She knew immediately, without even thinking, what she would say to a dying Doctor, whom she'd never see again.

She nodded almost imperceptibly, looking at the metal floor.

"That's what you, Rose and Sarah Jane have in common," he told her.

"Okay," she croaked.

"Don't feel bad, Martha," the Doctor said. He turned her chin back up to look at him. "Love opens up the soul, and the mind. You know this – it allows us to see things we'd never have seen before. And especially, it allows us to see beyond just the façade of the person we love most. Ordinarily, it would just be a beautiful metaphor, but in Crazyworld... something that opens up the soul _really_ opens the soul."

She nodded again, and averted her eyes.

"Don't look like that, please," he begged. "You look miserable."

"I'm not miserable, I'm just..."

"I know. But I'm all right with it. It's always nice to be loved."

"Yes, it is," she whispered, clearing her throat. Needing to change the subject, she asked, "You say he had a telepathic hold on you. What about me? Why involve me? Was he just trying to keep me from completing my mission?"

"Nah, he just wanted to torture me, and your involvement was a by-product." He smiled sheepishly. "You have a psychic link to me, maybe spiritual. There was nothing I could do about it, sorry."

"I do?"

"Sure. It's inevitable," he shrugged. "So does the TARDIS. She was trapped in that little room, too, for a good chunk of that time. It's why you felt her in your mind so much."

"Why do I remember both, though? Why is it all jumbling up – the Ward, the walking? Treating you in the hospital, and telling your story to underground cells of people? Why isn't it just one or the other? Was I dreaming?"

He thought about this. "Not really dreaming – it's stronger than dreaming, more real, more tangible. It was _almost_ a real place. Almost. You weren't aware that there were two realities, were you? When you were out hiking across the globe, you weren't longing for your cushy job as shrink, and vice versa."

"No, I didn't know. I knew something was going on, especially at the end, but I wasn't _experiencing_ them both at the time."

"Think about that other world. Do you remember times in-between when you weren't at the clinic, or weren't working on something related to me, as your patient?"

She reflected. "Not really."

"Sitting, reading a book for pleasure, having dinner with friends, anything like that?"

"Nothing like that."

"See?"

"I did experience a trip to Mallorca with my sister."

The Doctor thought about this. "Did you have any... I don't know, hypnosis, or... something that would take your mind out of its normal state?"

"I came down with fever when I was in Singapore. I was, apparently, delirious for three days, but I have no memory of it."

"There you go. That's probably it."

"How's that work, though?"

"Your entire purpose out there was to help me. Your entire life revolved around telling my story. You were there because I sent you. All of your hope for the future rested upon me. And, well, we have a bond, that psychic link that we've had... probably since our first day out together. And when your mind was idle, Martha, it naturally gravitated to my mind, and my mind was trapped, so... you joined me. I guess when you had fever... maybe something in your alternate self knew it too, and felt you couldn't work. I don't really know – I wasn't there for that bit."

"When my mind was idle. So... sleeping."

"Sleeping, daydreaming, yes. But I would think that even if you went walking for long periods of time, you'd fall into a kind of trance. Monotonous walking has been cited as a method of meditation."

"Okay, but don't all of your companions have a psychic link to you?"

"Yes, I reckon they were all there, in that world, at some point. Not for the whole time that I was interacting with them, but I think they all at least visited. It would have just been a vision for them, or a hunch, a gut feeling, or they'd have interpreted it as a dream. The ones who are present in 2007, that is. You got the brunt of it because you're the one I was with when it all came crashing down. You have the strongest link to me right now, Martha."

"Me and Jack."

"Well, Jack, yeah. But he's come in and out of my life. He's never been with me with the steadiness that you have."

"Okay," she said. She made a _slow-down _gesture with both hands as she thought, and got her mind round it. The Master. Some sort of Time Lord-to-Time Lord mind trick. The Doctor was tortured with forty-five years in a little room. Psychic links to the Doctor pulled others in, though none more completely than Martha. "I think I get it. But why are we just now feeling his grip go away? The Master has been dead for hours."

"Well, a Time Lord death is a funny thing, Martha. When he died, he still had some energy left – all Time Lords have that. It was waiting for him to regenerate, but he chose not to. But it doesn't just go away – energy can't be destroyed. And as long as something of him was left ticking, he'd have us both, at least a little. But now that his body is burning, that energy is going up with the smoke... and he's letting go."

"And I'm forgetting. Maybe I should write it all down."

"You can if you want, but... why would you?"

"It feels like I've lost a year of my life."

"You have. Twice. But you'll cope, I promise."

"Maybe I could write it as fiction."

He chuckled, then sighed. Then his face turned to something quizzical, and he began looking round the room.

"Where's Jack?" he asked, having suddenly realised that he'd come out to this field with both of his companions, yet only one stood with him in the console room.

"Oh, he went to a diner, or something. He said it was half a mile to the north, and we should just come find him when we're done."

"When we're done?" asked the Doctor. "Like we could ever be _done. _What does he think we're doing in here?"

"It's Jack," she shrugged. "Why do you even ask?"

The Doctor smirked and nodded. They both exhaled deeply and avoided looking at each other. Eventually the Doctor looked up and asked, "You all right?"

She nodded, and responded, "Yeah," with a chirp, but not a very convincing one.

There was a pause while he looked at her sideways. "Sure?"

"Ask me again later," sensing that he didn't believe her.

"Okay," he agreed. Then he took two steps forward and pulled her in for a hug. He was warm and strong and sane, and she closed her eyes to enjoy the feel of him. She lay her head against his lapels and almost collapsed with the weight of it.

And that characterised the last two years, with and without the Doctor. Weight.

It was just _so much _for one human being.

The weight of revelations. _We're on the bloody moon! It travels in time! It's bigger on the inside!_ The weight of fear and adrenaline and responsibility. The weight of time, the vastness of it, getting one's mind around how long _five billion years_ actually is. The weight of guilt from leaving behind a loving family, and then almost getting them killed. The weight of two realities, one ensuring she'd never be the same Martha Jones again, the other letting her see how cosy _torture_ could seem when compared against the worry of having to save the world. _That_ is a realisation she'd rather not have had.

As tears fell out of her eyes and soaked into the Doctor's jacket, she knew. She could carry all of that weight further along, were it not for that heaviest weight of all, unbalancing the load and pushing her down over and over: Love. She was up to her neck in it. She loved him so much, it hurt. And now that she knew that he was aware, and had chosen not to give any sign of reciprocation, she knew that she'd carry that heavy load alone forever. If she could just get him to take a brick or two, find her a wheelbarrow, _any_ indication that he wanted to share that weight with her... even then, she could take it for a bit longer.

But the way things were...

She stood in his arms and cried a little, saying a private goodbye.

"Oh, Martha," he sighed. "What would I ever do without you?"

"I don't know," she sniffed.

* * *

><p>Martha had forgotten in the last few minutes that she and the Doctor share a psychic link. He couldn't read her mind exactly, but something reverberating so strongly in every fibre of her being, he'd surely pick it up like a radio signal. <em>I love you, goodbye,<em> was all he could hear.

But it didn't take a Time Lord, or a psychic link, to see it. She was also crying softly, and he could feel little jerks every time she tried to swallow a sob, and not let him know how much she cared.

_Stall_, he told himself. _Don't give her an opening_.

"Shall we go find Jack?" he asked.

"Yeah," she whined against him.

"Then go back to Cardiff and see him off?"

"Yeah."

"Would it bother you if I asked him to stay with us?"

"No," she told him truthfully.

"Then what?"

"I want to see my family, help them get settled back at home again," she said.

He gulped. This would be their undoing. If she went home, she'd never want to see the stars with him again. But he couldn't deny her that – not under the circumstances.

_I love you, goodbye_. It was reverberating within.

Before he could let go, before whisking them both off into the unknown future, he wanted to relay something back to her. A radio signal. If he were a better man, he'd be able to look her in the eye, and say it. If he were a braver man, he'd be able to act. If he were a less-damaged man, he'd be excited to take the chance. If the past two years hadn't been so _weighty, _he would know that she wasn't too broken to listen.

But 'ifs' are useless; he had to work with what he was, and what he had - it's what he did best. And what he was, through and through, was a Time Lord. What do Time Lords do? They play mind games. He'd always known that, but he'd learned it again the hard way.

More than anything, though, they play mind games with themselves. And that's all this was - a mind game. If he were a better man? If he were braver? If he were less-damaged? Rubbish. He _was_ a good man, he _was _brave, he _was_ healing. Or at least he _wanted _to be.

_"_I love you. Please stay," he whispered to the top of her head, before he could over-think, and ruin it.

She pulled back and looked up at him, blinking hard. "Wha... how did you...?"

"I just did," he said softly. And then it was all happening too quickly, and he found it hard to look her in the eyes, so he pulled her in again, and held her close.

A short silence ensued, then she said, "I can't leave them." Her voice was cracking, thinking, knowing, that she would have to make a terrible choice.

"Then I guess I can't either."

* * *

><p><strong>Note: All right, I know it doesn't end with an epic snog, or a hot innuendo, or even (my specialty) a great big, huge emotional conversation about why and how they love each other, and no one else. But! I hope you find it satisfying anyway, because it opens the door for a whole different scenario. What happens when the Doctor decides to stay and help the Jones family recuperate is anyone's guess!<strong>

**Thank you again!**


End file.
